Theater of War: Act Five, Scene 1
by TOW-EMS
Summary: The continuation of the Theater of War series. If you have not read the prior acts, please read them in order. This, unlike the others which were published as paper fanzines, is not a completed story.
1. Chapter 1

Act Five

Scene One

William Shakespeare:

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances;

And _**one man in his time**_ plays many parts"

Certain characters have been borrowed with permission from the writings of Mel Hughes ( _Dress Rehearsal_ ) and LaVerne Cash ( _NewBeginnings_ ). If you are interested in reading those works, please email me.

Theater of War: Act Five — "One Man in His Time" is an amateur publication for the enjoyment of fans. The copyright covers only original material, and in no way intends to infringe upon the privileges of the holders of copyrights, trademarks or other legal rights for the _Hogan's Heroes_ universe.

If you have not read Theater of War: Act One, Act Two, Act Three and Act Four, including all their Scenes, please do so as each Act is a continuation of the prior Acts. Also, unlike Acts One through Four, Act Five is not a published fanzine and it is not yet complete. It is a work in progress, so comments, suggestions, etc. to correct completed chapters or to help future chapters is greatly appreciated. If you have any questions or comments about the stories thus far, feel free to email me. Thank you for reading.

(BTW, there are a lot of explanatory footnotes.)

* * *

Chapter 1

March 23, 1945

"And that's it for the news in the Pacific Theater," intoned the voice of Armed Forces Radio in the recreation hall of Stalag Luft 13. "On the Eastern Front, the Soviets have reached Küstrin, some 50 miles from Berlin. But German resistance remains strong, and the Soviet advance is stalled. However, the Soviets did capture Kolberg on the Baltic, and the ports of Gdynia and Danzig are under heavy attack. Attacks continue against German pockets in eastern Prussia.

"On the Western front, the updated list of some of the cities taken by our forces includes: Aachen, Andernach, Bonn, Boppard, Cologne, Koblenz, Kochem, Krefeld, Müchen-Gladbach, Rheydt, Saarbrücken and Trier."

At the large map tacked onto the back wall, Lt. J.B. Miller(1) checked the flags showing captured cities.

The radio voice continued, "The area between the Rhine and Moselle rivers is now under Allied control. However, the Siegried Line, also known as the West Wall, is still holding.

"The Remagen Bridge, which enabled our troops to cross the Rhine for the first time on March 7th, collapsed on March 17, killing several engineers. The loss of the bridge hasn't delayed our buildup on the eastern shore of the Rhine as pontoon bridges had already been built across the river.

"Yesterday, our bombers attacked numerous targets in the Ruhr and throughout Germany. Our advance on Frankfurt continues; General Eisenhower has warned civilians in Frankfurt to evacuate the city.

"Just in — two days ago the 4th Armoured Division took Worms while the 10th Armoured Division has captured the city of Darmstadt, the furthest city east thus far.

"The 90th Division has now cleared the city of Mainz of enemy troops. Meanwhile, the XX Corps began its attack on Ludwigshafen . . . "

Colonel Robert Hogan, once the senior POW officer and now the commander of surrendered Stalag Luft 13, a small POW camp northeast of the city of Dusseldorf in Germany, listened to the broadcast with half a mind. The rest of his mind was occupied with the moves made by his chess opponent, Luftwaffe Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the former commandant of Stalag Luft 13. For the past three and a half years, Hogan and Klink had been playing chess. For most of that time, Hogan had been under the impression that he'd been letting Klink win most of those games — his way of soothing the ego of the camp commandant to get whatever he wanted. That impression had been rudely dashed a few months ago when he discovered that Klink was the most notorious Resistance leader in Germany, the Stage, and to Hogan's chagrin, he still lost most of their games.

All in all, it had been an interesting and terrifying year, beginning shortly after the New Year with Gestapo Major Wolfgang Hochstetter's secret arrest of Klink after discovering that Klink was the Stage(2). Coming on the heels of Hogan's rescue of Klink and their subsequent return to camp was a fire that had destroyed most of nearby Hammelburg and would have destroyed Stalag 13 if Hogan and five hundred prisoner volunteers hadn't helped fight the fire(3). The devastating fire hadn't kept General Albert Burkhalter, Klink's superior, from sending the already crowded, understaffed and undersupplied camp several hundred new prisoners. Not long after the camp absorbed the newcomers, Klink nearly lost his life in a forced hunt orchestrated by a sadistic SS major named Reiner who'd guessed that Klink was the notorious Stage. Klink survived, and had come back to the overcrowded camp where he and Hogan had to deal with dwindling food and supplies, malcontented prisoners, an escaping concentration camp survivor who'd once been a friend of Klink's and Hogan getting shot during a rescue mission(4). And they had to deal with learning about the true horror of the Nazi regime — the death camps and the murders of millions of people. As commanders of men, they then had to deal with their men when the prisoners and guards learned about the camps and raged with anger and hatred at each other.

Then came Klink's surrender of the camp to Hogan. And the shock created by the actions of the commander sent by London. A strict disciplinarian towards those not part of his cabal, Colonel Francis Randall had turned his men loose on the town and his hatred on Klink, nearly killing him before Hogan rescued Klink and took the camp away from Randall.

That had been eleven days ago. Thankfully, everyone had now settled into a reasonably comfortable routine. Klink was teaching Hogan the fine points of commanding an army post, including dealing with the paperwork that Hogan loathed. The Allied soldiers had taken over most of the daily operations of the camp from the former German guards. And while it was too soon to expect the camp to run like a military base, the former prisoners, with the help of those newcomers who weren't part of Randall's clique, were beginning to function more like the military men they once were.

Then there was the town of Hammelburg. Thanks to Klink, the area was cut off from Field Marshall Walter Model's Army Group B and the war. As a result, peace reigned in the immediate area. True, there were shortages of food and other necessities. True, most of the town was in ruins. But merciless bombs didn't rain on them night and day, the children could play in safety and the old could enjoy the pastimes they'd always known. And there were no vast numbers of men from both sides fighting in their streets as there were in many parts of Germany. Even those who had not completely agreed with the surrender of the town to Hogan had reason to be grateful. And all saw the end coming to the Reich that the Führer had said would last for a thousand years. But outside the tranquil haven, the war continued, as they'd just heard on the news, on its bloody way.

"And that's it for the news of the day in the European Theater. Now, here's Tommy Dorsey and his band . . . "

Sergeant Richard Baker, a tall American black man, walked into the recreation hall as the music began.

Hogan glanced at him in surprise; Baker was supposed to be listening to the Stage's special frequency.

Baker walked over to Hogan and Klink and saluted. He handed Hogan a note. "From London, sir."

Hogan looked at it and smiled. "It's about time!"

Klink and the others looked at him.

Hogan's smile grew. "They're sending those uniforms we requested with tomorrow's cargo drop. It sounds like we cleaned out the whole inventory for the Brits and the U.S."

"Yeah, but will they fit?" asked young American Sergeant Andrew Carter.

"If they don't, we wasted three days getting everyone's measurements," retorted RAF corporal Peter Newkirk.

Amid the laughs, Baker turned to Klink. "Sir, Edmondson would like to talk to you. He said he'd call back in twenty minutes."

Hogan looked at Klink. Klink whose hand had stopped in midair as he moved a black knight. Klink's expression was unreadable, too much so. Which didn't bode well for the unseen Edmondson. Then, with exaggerated care, the knight landed on a square.

"You may tell Edmondson," Klink said in an emotionless voice, "that if I decide I have no choice but to talk to him, it will be at _my_ convenience. Not his."

Hogan looked sharply at Klink as Baker said, "Yes, sir."

Baker saluted again, earning a look from some of the others in the recreation hall, and left.

Hogan opened his mouth, intending to ask Klink . . .

And shut it. There was a warning glint in Klink's eye as he looked at Hogan. Then that disappeared, replaced by . . . Hogan blinked. For a moment, for one unnerving moment, there had been such anger in Klink's eyes. And Hogan found himself wondering what Edmondson had done to deserve it.

* * *

March 24, 1945:

"From Armed Forces Radio: Our big news of the day is the nighttime Rhine crossing yesterday by General Patton's Third Army at Oppenheim. The crossing was a complete surprise and our forces encountered unexpectedly weak opposition during the crossing. Yesterday, thousands of bombers from the Eighth Air Force attacked numerous targets east of the Rhine while the Ninth Air Force attacked numerous communications centers."

Colonel Robert Hogan was in Klink's — _my_ , he amended silently — office, going over yet another report with his exec, RAF Captain John Witton(5). Overhead, he could hear the drone of the C-47s(6) and their accompanying fighter escort getting louder. He glanced at his watch and grinned. Nine a.m. Right on time. Nice of the Eighth Air Force boys to be so prompt, especially with so much else going on.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door and Lt. J.B. Miller poked his head inside. "Colonel," Miller managed to gasp, "we just got a call from the lead plane. We're getting company and one of them has three stars."

Witton looked at Miller with surprise. "A lieutenant general?"

"Yes, sir."

 _Oh, great!_ Hogan thought as he stood up. "Guess we'd better meet him. Miller, get a jeep and get out to the field."

"Yes, sir." Miller's head disappeared.

"Hilda!"

" _Jawohl_ , Colonel Hogan," she answered from the outer office.

"Find Captains Mitchell, Martin and Warren. Have them meet us at the back gate. And send a messenger to Colonel Klink; he's with Gruber and Schultz. Tell him we're getting some important company, a lieutenant general."

" _Jawohl_ , Colonel," Hilda said, picking up the telephone.

Hogan and Witton were heading out the door.

"Think he's your replacement, Colonel?" Witton asked.

"A lieutenant general? We're an isolated backwater camp, barely the size of a brigade; we wouldn't warrant a lieutenant general. Unless . . . "

"Unless?"

"Unless something big's going to happen," Hogan said with a touch of grimness in his voice.

They left the office and headed for the back gate.

Just outside the back gate, Hogan glanced at the approaching captains — Edward H. Martin(7), John Mitchell(8) and Jerry Warren(9).

"What's up, Colonel?" Martin asked when they reached Hogan and Witton.

"We've got visiting brass," Hogan said. He nodded at the C-47s approaching the open field opposite the back gate. High above the unarmed cargo planes, the squadron of P-51 escorts circled, looking for enemy fighters. "A lieutenant general."

Warren whistled softly. "Any idea who, sir?"

Hogan shook his head. "Not a clue."

Hogan and the four captains watched as one of the six cargo planes peeled off from the others and headed for the field. Two opening parachutes appeared. When the parachutists got close enough to be identified, Miller, in the jeep, took off across the hard-packed field, and stopped, waiting for the parachutists to land. Miller got out of the jeep and saluted. Then the three men got into the jeep, which turned back towards the back gate. As soon as the jeep cleared the field, the six cargo planes came back and, circling the field in a tight formation, began unloading their cargo. Dozens of billowing white canopies dotted the gray sky. Even more soft packages without parachutes, _the_ _uniforms_ Hogan thought idly, were pushed from the planes as the jeep with Miller and the two visitors reached the back gate.

Hogan and the captains saluted as the visitors, a green-looking captain and the lieutenant general, got out of the jeep.

The two officers also saluted.

"Colonel Hogan? I'm Captain Elliot Mason," said the officer in a shaky voice. "I'd like to introduce Lt. General Edward Edmondson(10)."

"General Edmondson," Hogan said, hiding his surprise at Edmondson's name. "Welcome to Stalag Luft 13."

Edmondson, a shorter, stockier man in his late fifties, held out his hand to shake Hogan's. "Thank you, Colonel."

Hogan turned to the officers behind him and introduced them.

Edmondson nodded a greeting. "Gentlemen." He turned to Hogan with a faint smile. "Colonel, now that the formalities are over with, you and your men can relax. This is an unofficial visit. In fact, I was never here, if you catch my drift."

Hogan smiled. "Yes, sir."

Edmondson grinned. "Good. I'd like Mason to take a tour of the camp, get a feel of the place and see if there's anything we could do to make things a bit more comfortable for the men here."

"Of course, sir. Captain Witton, please show Captain Mason around."

Edmondson glanced at the still pale face of his aide and cleared his throat. "I think Mason could do with some breakfast first, if you don't mind, Captain. I didn't tell him we were going to be jumping out of a plane."

Witton smiled briefly at Mason. "No problem, sir. If you'll follow me, Captain."

"What about you, sir?" Hogan asked Edmondson as the captains began leaving.

Edmondson laughed shortly. "Cast iron stomach; I ate on the plane. Mason's a bit more tender." He looked at Hogan. "I saw a glint of recognition when Mason said my name. Did _he_ tell you about me?"

"No, sir," Hogan said as they began walking along the inside wire. "I was there when your message was delivered yesterday." He cleared his throat.

Edmondson laughed. "When he so politely told me to go to hell."

"Yes, sir," Hogan said. "And one other time."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. When you told him about the Messerschmitts last month(11)."

Edmondson nodded. "I gather you didn't expect me to be a lieutenant general."

"No, sir, I didn't."

"For most operatives, you'd be right. But he's always been a special case. Keeping him outside of the normal intelligence channels made it much safer for him. When MI-5 was compromised in 1940(12), and most of the agents in Europe were arrested or forced out, the Stage survived. And grew. My rank cut through the red tape and ensured that he got the cooperation and supplies he needed."

Hogan nodded. "May I ask why you're here, General?"

"Not to take over, if that's what you're worried about."

"Well . . . "

Edmondson smiled briefly. "You're still in charge, Hogan"

"Thank you, sir."

"Least I can do, considering." He fell silent for a moment. "How is he, Hogan?"

"Physically, fine. Getting more sleep than he's gotten in years, even with the nightmares," Hogan said as Edmondson winced. "His back's healed and the scars should fade in time."

Hogan glanced at Edmondson's profile as the general looked around the camp. And he followed Edmondson's gaze. He saw Klink standing with Captain Fritz Gruber, Sergeants Hans Schultz and Karl Langenscheidt and several of the former guards; they were watching the supply drop. Hogan glanced at Edmondson again and was surprised at the bemused expression on Edmondson's face as he looked at the tall, lean man in the Luftwaffe uniform.

Edmondson caught Hogan's eye and smiled faintly. "I just realized that this is the first time I've seen him in _his_ uniform. Every other time, he was wearing civilian clothes or one of our uniforms." Edmondson shook his head. "Seems a bit odd to tell you the truth."

Hogan nodded and said evenly, "You came to see him, sir."

A curt nod. "We have a few things to clear up."

"Sir?"

"Later, Colonel."

"Yes, sir."

As they neared Klink and the others, Hogan could see Klink's expression grow unreadable, and he heard Edmondson's sigh as they walked over.

Then they reached the Germans. Klink and the others saluted, salutes that Edmondson returned.

When Klink showed no sign of speaking, Hogan found himself saying, "Colonel Klink, General Edmondson."

Edmondson nodded abruptly, as did Klink.

In other circumstances, the silent confrontation might have been amusing to Hogan, but the tension between the two men was now palpable. Hogan didn't know why and that annoyed him.

After a few uncomfortable moments, Edmondson broke the silence. "I'd like to talk to you, Colonel Klink. Alone."

Klink jerked his head in a nod.

Edmondson turned to Hogan. "If you don't mind, Colonel Hogan, we'll walk outside the fence."

"Not at all, sir."

"Good. After you, Colonel Klink." Edmondson gestured.

Klink walked away from the others, heading for the back gate.

Hogan, after watching the two men for a moment, nodded goodbye to the bewildered Germans and left.

* * *

Edmondson and Klink strode through the back gate. Edmondson glanced at the containers still dropping toward the ground. There were fewer of them as only one C-47 was still dropping cargo. The final container was released and the last plane joined the others that had been circling the camp. Then the six C-47s and their fighter escort flew out of the area. As the last container hit the field, men in the waiting vehicles surged onto the field to retrieve the goods.

Edmondson turned to the silent man beside him; Klink was also watching the field. Edmondson glanced at the gate; they were still too close to the sentries and the men returning with the supplies. He resumed walking along the road that ran parallel to the camp; Klink followed him silently.

They had left the others behind; the road was deserted. Only the birds in forest broke the silence.

"Damn it, Stage!" Edmondson said after they had walked without a word being exchanged for ten minutes. "Say something!"

Klink stopped. An emotion crossed his face, but before Edmondson could identify it, it was gone. "I beg your pardon, sir. Were you talking to me?"

Edmondson held on to his temper. "You've had your laugh, St — "

"There is no one here by that name, General," Klink said in a controlled voice. "My name is Wilhelm Erich Klink. I am a colonel in the Luftwaffe. My serial number is — "

"Enough! I didn't come here to play games with you."

"I am not playing, Herr General. I am pointing out a fact you have forgotten. A fact that Colonel Randall and his men did not let me forget. I am a German, one of the despised enemy. So, Lt. General Edward Edmondson, what could you possibly have to say to a German prisoner of war?"

"I can say I made a mistake."

Klink looked at him for a moment and turned away. "Why?" Klink asked in a taut voice. "Why did you send Randall? Why didn't you leave Hogan in charge?"

"Leave Hogan in charge? Leaving aside the fact that he had minimal experience in administration, I didn't know if he was even going to be here. You surrendered the camp out of the blue and didn't bother telling me what you were going to do. For all I knew, you were going to vanish and take Hogan with you!"

"So it was my fault for not telling you."

"I did not say that! As for Randall, I didn't have my staff check him out; I left it to others."

Klink looked away from him. "I surrendered the camp and the town because I thought they would be safe. And I thought Hogan would be in charge. Or if not him, someone who would treat the people here as human beings if not as allies." He turned back to Edmondson, anger tightening his expression. "And if I did leave with Hogan, if I had not been here, what would have happened then? Randall didn't care who he tortured. I was a uniform to him. If I hadn't been here, the one who would have been in that cell was Captain Gruber. And he'd be dead! Dead not merely because of Randall's behavior. But dead because Captain Witton, through no fault of his own, wouldn't have cared enough about him to defy Randall."

"I know," Edmondson said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one you should apologize to! Apologize to Gruber and the others who were unjustly confined. Apologize to the four women who were raped. Apologize to the people were beaten and threatened. And apologize to the 12-year-old boy whose future, whose life, was forever changed when his head hit that stone wall!(13)"

Klink turned away from him, his fingers clenched around the riding crop.

"I know how most Allied soldiers, including those in command, feel about Germans," Klink said in a defeated voice. "I know what the official policy is for dealing with Germans(14). And I know how little valued the Resistance is in your country by your newspapers(15) and many in your government. But I thought that here at least where so many in the town had helped Hogan, had helped the Allies, here at least they would be spared the anger and hatred that Germans will have to face. That here they would be treated as decent people and not as conquered enemies."

"They will be, Wilhelm," Edmondson said in a quiet tone. "I'll make sure of it. And I'll make sure that Randall and his followers are punished."

"Will you be allowed to?" was the bitter question.

"Yes. I know it's hard for you to believe right now, but you do have friends."

An ironic smile. "The Stage has friends."

Edmondson shook his head. "No, the Stage has admirers; Wilhelm Klink has friends. Influential friends. When the decision is made to appoint a permanent commander for the area, that man will know exactly what the town has done for us, and will know about Hogan and his people, and you. That I guarantee." He looked at Klink's profile. "Peace?"

After a long moment, Klink turned back to him. "Peace."

Edmondson smiled. "Thank you." He glanced back at the field. Supplies and men were still moving into the camp. He saw Hogan and Mason near one of the supply huts and nodded toward them. "How's Hogan doing?"

"He's learning."

A bark of laughter. "Good. If he wants to stay in the Air Force after the war is over, he'll have to get used to admin."

"He wants to fly," Klink said.

"Oh, I think they'll let him do some of that. But flyboys are a dime a dozen. So are colonels. Did you know he was frocked into his rank?"

Klink looked blankly at him.

"Frocking is giving a man a higher rank than he's really got.(16) Know what I mean?"

Klink nodded.

"In Hogan's case, he was a major when he went to England with the Lend-Lease program. Well, we couldn't have a major dealing with group captains and generals and the like, so he was frocked to colonel. And since the war started, there are American generals who are really colonels or even majors, colonels who are really captains, and so on. After the war ends, we're going to downsize quickly, and many of the men who remain will be reduced to their permanent ranks."

"Including Hogan?"

Edmondson smiled. "Well, he's a special case. A couple of months after he was captured, he had just enough time in grade as a major to make Lt. Colonel. If he'd been just a normal POW, they wouldn't have given him the promotion.(17) But after he got his crazy idea about using the camp to help escaping airmen, well, Marshall(18) and Arnold(19) decided that maybe we could use a man like him after the war — assuming he survived, that is. So, Hogan got his permanent promotion to Lt. Colonel. And now, he's got enough time in grade to make full colonel. If he were anyone else, the promotion wouldn't have gone through; we've already got too many colonels and generals wandering around. But Ike got curious about Hogan and the camp after I told him about it. We spent a couple of hours chewing the fat, uh, talking about the operation here," he clarified as Klink's face went blank. "And Ike was impressed enough to decide that the Army could use someone like Hogan after the war. A lot of the older upper rank men are going to retire or will be told to retire to bring fresh blood into the postwar Army. And if Arnold and Spaatz(20) have their way, they're going to split the Air Corps off into a separate service. They'll need men with new ideas and the guts to change the system if it needs changing."

"Like Hogan," Klink said with a faint smile.

"Like Hogan. A permanent rank of colonel just might make him decide to stay in after the war."

"I'm glad; he deserves it."

"Yeah . . . well." Edmondson looked uncomfortable now. "Speaking of after the war — "

Klink looked at him.

"How much do you know about what's going to happen?" Edmondson asked.

"I have some idea," Klink said slowly, reluctantly. Then he looked at Edmondson. "I know that there are a number of prominent people in your country who wouldn't care if every German died of starvation.(21)"

Edmondson returned his look steadily. "I can't deny that. Any more than I can deny that there are Americans who are raping and looting and acting as bad as any Nazi. There will be a military occupation. How long? God knows, though the President(22) has said publicly no more than two years. Personally, I think he's kidding himself. How is the occupation going to work?" Edmondson shook his head. "Don't know yet. There are meetings going on in Washington right now trying to decide that. Part of the problem, to be blunt, is that the President, well, sometimes acts as if he doesn't remember what he's said or done, though it's debatable if he really doesn't remember or prefers not to, and gives contradictory orders."

Klink's brow rose.

Edmondson nodded. "Very few know, but Roosevelt's health isn't good.(23) Hasn't been for some time; that hasn't helped the situation. Nor does it help that he's a politician in every sense of the word, good and bad(24). But," his hand reached inside his jacket, "there is one solid fact I can give you." He pulled a large folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "They've decided on four occupation zones, presumably autonomous with each occupying power deciding what to do and how to do it within their zone."

Edmondson looked at the paper in his hand, uncomfortably it seemed to Klink. Then, to Klink's surprise, Edmondson handed it to him.

Klink took it and glanced at Edmondson who refused to meet his eyes. Klink turned away from him, opening the folded paper. It was a map of Germany, showing the major cities and states. Overlaid on the map were red lines showing the occupation zones — French, American, British, and Soviet.

 _Dear God, NO!_

Klink felt numb, and after a long silence, he said in a flat voice. "I understand that there are people in your country who are proud to say they can trace their families back to your American Revolution . . . My family has lived in Leipzig for over 500 years . . . And," he crumpled the map, "and you've just told me I can't go home."

He scarcely heard Edmondson say, "I know . . . I'm sorry."

For several minutes, the only sound was the breeze rustling the leaves.

Finally, Edmondson spoke, "Based on the plans I saw, it will be Hodges' First Army that gets to Leipzig; the Soviets are stopping at the Mulde(25). And nothing's going to happen for at least a couple of months after the war ends. You can still . . . "

His voice trailed off and he stared at Klink's ramrod-straight back. "I'm sorry," he said again gently.

Then he turned and left Klink alone.

* * *

Endnotes

1 "The Meister Spy"

2 _Act Two_

3 _Act Three_

4 _Act Four_

5 _Act Three_

6 The military version of the civilian DC-3, the C-47 was an unarmed transport plane used to haul cargo, troops, equipment, vehicles, etc. If needed, it could also tow gliders and act as a flying ambulance.

7 "The Gold Rush"

8 "The Big Gamble"

9 "The Flame Grows Higher"

10 _Act Four_

11 _Act Four_

12 The Venlo incident. In brief, two British agents were kidnapped in Venlo, Holland by SS agents under Walter Schellenberg who had infiltrated the Dutch (SIS) intelligence agency and tricked the British into meeting with his people. After their capture, the British agents cooperated with their captors. The net result was that the Dutch network was destroyed, as was most of the British.

13 _Act Four_

14 JCS 1067: no fraternization or friendly relations with Germans including not shaking hands, not having personal conversations, not sharing food, not treating even children with leniency, among other things. In short, make certain that Germans were still treated as the enemy. An excellent book on the U.S. Occupation of Germany is available online **for** **free** as part of the Army Historical Series: Earl F. Ziemke, _The U.S. Army in the Occupation of Germany 1944 – 1946._ Another is Frederick Taylor's _Exorcising Hitler, The Occupation and Denazification of Germany._ In reality, individual commanders of the Occupation troops had considerable leeway in how they interpreted JCS 1067 for the areas under their command.

15 Instead of praising the assassination attempt on Hitler in July 1944, publications such as _The New York Herald Tribune_ were castigating the "militarists" who tried to get rid of Hitler and were almost praising Hitler for executing them. To the dismay of many, such as Allen Dulles, instead of encouraging Germans to join the Resistance, most American and British politicians were silent or disparaging about those who had tried to get rid of Hitler. Thomas Fleming: _The New Dealers' War: F.D.R. and the War within World War II_.

16 A frocked officer gets the respect, title and insignia of the frocked rank, but not the pay or time in grade. Omar Bradley, frocked to 3-star lieutenant general in 1943; was still officially a lieutenant colonel. Lt. General George Patton's real rank was colonel. When Dwight David "Ike" Eisenhower, the 5-star General of the Army, top Allied Commander in Europe, and head of SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces) was promoted to 4-star general in early 1943, his permanent rank was still only lieutenant colonel, though his promotions to general in the permanent Army gained speed as the war went on. The Germans also frocked many of their officers.

17 If they had enough time in grade and otherwise qualified, POWs could be promoted on a case-by-case basis.

18 George C. Marshall: Chief of Staff of the US Army from1939, senior 5-star general, outranking all others.

19 Henry Harley "Hap" Arnold: 5-star General of the Army Air Force

20 Carl "Tooey" Spaatz: 4-star general who commanded US air strategic forces in Europe

21 The Morgenthau Plan devised by U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Henry Morgenthau who had insinuated himself into affairs that were properly the military's and the Secretary of State's. If he had his way, Germany was to be permanently dismembered, all industries destroyed, estates broken up, mines destroyed and closed, and the country reduced to a permanent agricultural state with its population at a subsistence level. While it was ultimately rejected before the war ended, it became the basis of JCS 1067.

22 Franklin Delano Roosevelt, president of the U.S. 1933 to April 1945.

23 FDR suffered from, among other things, an enlarged heart; drugs that alleviate the disease didn't exist in 1945. By this time, many who hadn't seen him in a while were convinced, as Gen. Lucius Clay put it, "We've been talking to a dead man." Thomas Fleming: _The New Dealers' War, F.D.R. and the War within World War II._

24 FDR, endowed with a belief in his invincibility, was certain he would live beyond the end of the war and rarely told his staff, including Cabinet officers and Vice President Truman, what he really intended to do.

25 The two armies were to meet at the Mulde, but due to a communication error on the part of the Soviets, the meeting eventually took place on the Elbe, 20 miles further east.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _Why don't I feel anything?_

Maybe there were some emotions that were too raw, too . . .

He had to get off the road; it was too open, too . . .

Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Wilhelm Klink walked down the road, past the wall of the camp's motor pool, past one of the manned watchtowers and rounded the southeast corner of the camp. There, he began climbing the hill that overlooked the camp.

On the crest of the hill, he sat on a fallen log. His trembling fingers opened the crumpled map and he stared at it. Stared at Leipzig, sitting in the middle of the Soviet zone.

 _I didn't expect . . . Didn't think . . . My God, why? Why?_

 _Because of that madman in the Berlin bunker._

A surge of hatred such as he'd never felt before blazed through him. And just as suddenly, it vanished, leaving him drained.

He'd been a soldier for more years than he liked to think about. And in all those years, he'd rarely stayed in one place very long. He'd told Langenscheidt that the five years he'd spent at Stalag 13 was the longest time he'd spent in one place since joining the military. And it was. But despite those years, despite the absences, there was still one place he thought of as home — Leipzig. And when this godforsaken war was over, he longed to go back to it.

Oh, not to stay, not to live. His life had changed too much over the past eleven years to live there permanently. But it still meant more to him than any other place. He wanted to walk the streets of his youth, to again visit the places that he loved, to show . . . He still had close friends there, and family and . . .

 _Well, what did you expect? Did you expect them to consider your feelings when they dismembered Germany?_

 _They should have! They . . ._

 _They don't give a damn. And you know it._

 _Some do. Like Edmondson and . . ._

 _And what about Churchill? For God's sake, the man's the prime minister!_

 _And Churchill is a politician in a country that has been bloodied, nearly conquered, because of the ambitions of vengeful hate-filled men._

He'd met Winston Churchill three times. The first time was before the war, before Churchill became prime minister. Churchill had been one of the few who'd listened to him, and Churchill had pledged to help as much as he could. And Churchill had kept his word.

Their second meeting hadn't started well. The war had started and England had been under attack for nearly a year. Churchill was angry and frightened, and having a German around, even one allied with him, had disturbed him. Mark Richmond(1) had played peacemaker, and the next day, Churchill had gruffly and reluctantly apologized for his behavior. During the next three days, they'd talked about many things, not just the war. And they'd parted as friends.

Their third meeting in the beginning of 1944 was rushed. But Churchill had, almost apologetically, told him that Roosevelt was taking an inordinately hard line toward Germany. Roosevelt had been the one who pushed for an unconditional surrender at the Casablanca conference with Stalin in 1943. And when Churchill couldn't get Roosevelt to change his mind, the Prime Minister, at least in his public statements, had to keep up a united front and agree with his stronger ally. Churchill had said he would try to get Roosevelt to see reason — top Allied military leaders, including Marshall and Eisenhower, were opposed to the unconditional surrender demand — and he would try to convince Roosevelt what a threat Stalin was. But for reasons Churchill couldn't fathom, Roosevelt was blind to Stalin's faults and ambitions and thought he could handle the Soviet leader.

 _And I'm the one who pays!_ _Despite all that I've done for them, I lose everything!_

Everything _?_ Despite his anger, his innate honesty wouldn't allow him to lie to himself.

 _No, not everything. But . . ._

He looked up at the heavens. _Is this the price for all those impossible missions that shouldn't have succeeded? When I, what is the phrase the Americans use, snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? For staying alive when millions of others died?_

A ragged breath. Leipzig in exchange for Germany. Another piece of his soul gone. Another . . .

 _Mama! How do I tell her?_ Tradition, roots, they meant more to her than anyone else in the family. Twenty generations of Klinks had lived in Leipzig. Once there had even been a title(2) that had been lost when another Klink followed his conscience and defied the ruling prince. And his mother's family had lived there nearly as long. The house they occupied in Leipzig had belonged to his mother's family for some two hundred years. Once, the entire block the house stood on had been her family's estate until time and circumstances took the money that had paid for that way of life. Now there were elegant townhouses on the once extensive estate whose history very few remembered.

But Mama; she remembered. And raised her children to remember that they had come from an aristocratic bloodline. Not in a snobbish or patronizing way. Manners, culture, duty — those were the qualities that defined the true aristocrat, she'd said. Those were the important qualities, even if there was no money, no title to go along with the name. Franz, Wolfgang and their families lived in the house with Mama. They, much more than he, had strong ties to Leipzig. Dieter and Therese had gone to Konstanz, but neither of them had thought that they couldn't return to the city they still called home.

 _How do I tell them they will no longer have a home? And —_

 _Anna . . . Dear God, Anna. She'd have to leave as well._ They were kindred spirits; one reason they'd become so close. And he knew she could no more bear to live under Stalin than he could. More, she had real wealth and influence in Leipzig — that made her dangerous to the Soviets. She'd already lost her husband and only child to the war. And now, when the end was so close, now she would also lose the home she loved.

Then the others, those who'd followed him. Karl, Richard, the men and women in their sections — they would also be in the Soviet territory.

 _I'll have to get the word out . . . I'll have to . . ._

The numbness returned and with it an unbearable fatigue.

* * *

Lt. General Edward Edmondson found his aide, Captain Elliot Mason, with Robert Hogan near the front gate.

"I'd like to get the men in the infirmary out of here," Hogan was saying. "They're stable, but they're not getting better."

"I understand, Colonel. But right now . . . General, sir," Mason said, catching sight of Edmondson.

"How's it going, Mason?"

"Fine, sir. Colonel Hogan gave me a list of equipment and supplies he'd like to get."

Edmondson glanced at the list and raised a brow. "That's a lot of weapons, Colonel."

Hogan nodded. "There's a whole Army group still out there, sir. Right now, we're cut off from them. But there's no guarantee things will stay that way. I'd like to be ready, just in case. But what I'd really like is an engineering aviation battalion to fix the airfield south of here and send many of these guys home."

Edmondson smiled faintly and shook his head. "I wish I could get you an EAB, Colonel. But there aren't many EABs and they're spread pretty thin. We can get you everything else on that list, but not that. At least, not yet."

Hogan looked at him. "Sir, I just realized . . . How are you getting out of here?"

Edmondson smiled. "A small plane coming in after dark. It's been useful in the past, as you have reason to know."

Hogan smiled as well. "Yes, sir." He looked around. "Where is he, sir?"

"I left him outside," Edmondson said. "I'm afraid I gave him a shock."

The smile left Hogan's eyes. "Sir?"

"I just told him that Leipzig will be in the Soviet zone after the war. It means he won't be able to go home, at least not permanently, not for a long time."

"But . . . " Hogan started. And stopped, remembering what Klink had told him about Stalin. "I guess he couldn't live under Stalin any more than he could live under Hitler."

Edmondson nodded. "It's more than that, Hogan. Our relations with Stalin haven't been the easiest. Hell, we've had fights with Churchill too. But Stalin hates us, regardless of what Roosevelt thinks. And he hates Germans. He's also paranoid. If Stalin's people ever discover who Klink is, what he's done for us . . . " He shook his head. "Which is why we're going to clamp a security classification on his operation and by extension on yours so high that no one will ever know the Stage and Papa Bear existed."

"Oh."

"Disappointed, Colonel?"

"Not for me, sir, but for the men. Many of them have given so much, especially those who were here from the beginning. I'd like to see them get recognition for what they've done. I mean their friends and families know they're here and I know that there are going to be questions and comments about them sitting in a safe POW camp — "

"What?"

Mason, responding to Edmondson's tone, melted away.

"Colonel Hogan, do you know what you're saying?" Edmondson asked.

Hogan's jaw tightened. "I'm saying, sir, that the folks in the States are going to think that the men here had it easy. And they're going to wonder why these guys just sat here and didn't try to escape."

"The hell they will. Look, we've already liberated a number of POW camps. And their stories are being told. Not specifically, of course; detailed information about the camps will be top secret for a number of years. But most of the folks at home know that it hasn't been easy for POWs. As for escapes," Edmondson eyed him, "I think we made a mistake not telling you."

"Sir?"

"Hogan, you've processed hundreds of evaders and escapees as well as others through here over the past three and a half years. Some of them were pretty important people."

"Yes, sir."

"Not all of them got to where they were supposed to go," Edmondson said in a quiet voice. "The ones we picked up directly by plane or sub — well, they made it. But the rest of them, the ones who had to go through the occupied countries, most of them didn't make it."

Shock froze Hogan's expression. _Most of them!_ "But . . . "

"It's not easy to make a home run(3), Colonel," Edmondson said almost gently. "Especially from Germany. Getting through Germany, then through the still occupied countries — France or Holland or Belgium — with few of them knowing the language, the habits, the culture, having faked papers, well, many of them made mistakes, trusted the wrong person or were betrayed. A million things could and did go wrong. The fact that any of them did get home or made it to safe places is something to be proud of."

"And the rest?" Hogan managed to ask.

"Most of them were caught and sent to other camps. But some were killed. Some," his eyes met Hogan's, "we killed."

"We . . . "

"The traitors and the Germans who didn't want to defect," Edmondson said. "The ones who could have and would have destroyed your operation, and by extension the Stage's, they were trouble the minute they were out of your hands. Those men, like Seifert(4) and Williams(5), the second they thought they could do it, they tried to get away. The men accompanying them had no choice but to silence them. And that attracted unwanted attention to those men. Only two of them managed to make it to safety, and it was a miracle they did. The rest . . . Some of them were killed. The rest were sent to other prisons, and given the disruption in communications, I don't know if most of them are alive or not." Edmondson looked at Hogan's frozen expression. "Do you really think it was that easy, Colonel?" Edmondson asked in a soft voice. "Do your men really think all they had to do to get home was to get out of here?

Hogan couldn't reply, and he half-turned to evade Edmondson's gaze. But he couldn't evade Edmondson's words. _Were we truly that naïve? Not we — me! Did I really think all I had to do was send men out of here and they'd make it home? And not just them. I sent Resistance groups out of here too._

"What about the others?" he asked in a low voice. "The Resistance people who had to leave."

"We don't know about most of them," Edmondson said. "They at least had the advantage of knowing the language and customs. Hopefully, they were able to make it to safe houses. The truth is we may never know what happened to most of them. While they helped you, they weren't Allied personnel. We had no reason to keep track of them. For the most part, we don't even know who they were. Hell, except for the Six and a few others, we don't know the names of the Stage's people. And I very much doubt that he knows most of them. That's like asking a general if he knows the names of the men in his division. Do you know the names of all the men here?"

Hogan looked rueful. "I used to. Or at least Kinch did a few years ago. Now?" He shook his head. Then a look at Edmondson. "General, there was a girl," he said. "We sent her directly to London(6). Her code name was Tiger; her real name was — "

"Marie Louise Monet," Edmondson finished in a soft voice. "Beautiful girl." Edmondson smiled. "She made it." He began walking slowly. "She had quite a bit to say about you. And the camp."

"Oh."

Edmondson's smile grew. "My wife and I had the pleasure of her company for several dinners in London. Reminded us of our eldest daughter."

"Is she still in London?"

Edmondson shook his head. "She returned to Paris after the liberation. My wife received a note from her just before Christmas, saying she'd arrived safely and was reunited with her family. We haven't heard anything since then."

"I suppose she's back in the Resistance."

Edmondson looked at him with surprise. "What the hell for? They're done. De Gaulle is in charge of France; the French Army is marching into Germany in the south. And the French Resistance units sure aren't welcome in Germany, even along the borders. I know they're being debriefed regarding collaborators and the like. But that's it."

Hogan nodded. "I guess I should be glad about that. But — "

"But she was a big part of your life," Edmondson said with a smile. "For a number of years." A candid look at the younger man. "But she's French, Colonel. And, believe it or not, she talked more about France and the people she knew there than she talked about you. That last mission when she was caught, the last time you saw her when you saved her from a very nasty fate(7), that scared her more than anything else that had happened to her. She wants, like many men who are fighting the war, nothing more than a life without fear in the country she helped save. A normal, uneventful life in France. Can you, no matter how much you care for her, give her that?"

Hogan almost answered, "Yes," without thinking. _And I'd look like a bloody fool,_ he admitted to himself. _Because Edmondson and I both know I don't want to live in France, even with a woman like Tiger. Tiger. But she's not Tiger any more. She's Marie Louise Monet, a girl forced by circumstances and, yeah, love of France to be a Tiger._ Hogan looked at Edmondson and saw the understanding in his eyes. "No, sir, I couldn't. After all these years, she deserves to be happy. If an uneventful life makes her happy, then she should have it."

Edmondson nodded. "And what about you, Hogan? What would make you happy after the war ends?"

 _The million dollar question!_ And he shrugged. "The truth, sir, I'm not sure. I know I want to fly. And I'm really itching to fly one of those jets!" He grinned at Edmondson's smile. "But for the rest . . . I want to make sure my men get the recognition they deserve. And that they get to wherever they want to go in one piece. But," his eyes met Edmondson's, "for now, I can't think that far ahead. Maybe I'm afraid to."

Edmondson nodded. "I know. But the war won't last much longer. Just stick it in the back of your mind and drag it out every once in a while. Okay?"

Hogan smiled. "Okay, sir. If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to see how Klink's doing."

Another nod. "Good idea." He glanced at some of the Germans looking at him with interest. "And when you see him, you two might want to come up with a story to tell those curious former guards about my visit."

"Yes, sir. If you'll excuse me, sir." Hogan saluted smartly and walked away.

Edmondson glanced at the Germans again and looked around for . . . "Mason! How about a tour?"

"Of course, sir." And the two men walked off.

* * *

"There you are!" Hogan called when he spotted Klink sitting on a log. He climbed the few remaining feet to the crest of the hill overlooking the camp. Hogan glanced at Klink, noting the uncharacteristic slump, and he turned back to the view. "Wouldn't know there's a war on from up here, would you? Well, except for the camp," he continued. "But get rid of the camp and it would be a nice place to visit, maybe camp out. Maybe," he glanced at Klink as a thought hit him, "maybe even a nice place to live. Yeah," his eyes went back to the view, "build a nice little cabin or whatever the German equivalent is. And plant — "

"What the HELL are you babbling about?" Klink interrupted.

"Nothing at all." He faced Klink squarely. "I just wanted to get a rise out of you."

Klink blinked at him, his expression still blank. "Edmondson told you."

"Yeah. Want to talk about it?"

There was a long silence. One that was becoming very uncomfortable to Hogan. "I guess not," he murmured and turned away. He took a couple of steps down the hill. "Not talking isn't going to make it better." A few more steps down the hill.

"I'm tired, Robert," Klink said, his voice still flat. "And wondering why I bothered . . . "

"Don't you dare finish that!" Hogan said in a taut voice. "You more than most know why! Just because you're feeling sorry for yourself!" Klink stared at him. "Don't give me that look! You know that's exactly what you're doing!"

"And of course you never felt like that!"

Hogan stood still as a memory washed over him. A memory he wasn't too happy about. Slowly, he climbed back to Klink and sat down on the opposite end of the log. "Boy, that's probably the wrongest thing you've ever said."

"Wrongest?"

"Yeah, wrongest." A small smile. "It's in the dictionary; look it up. But . . . Remember last year when that Gestapo guy Major Pruhst showed up?(8)"

Klink nodded.

"I'm not sure what you thought was going on with me. But he _scared_ me! More than anyone did before. He had me cold. And I knew it."

"I know," Klink said. "But you got out of it. After your bout of chicken pox(9)," he added with a small smile.

Hogan stared at him. "You don't really think I came down with chicken pox?"

"Of course not. I just assumed you took the time to figure out what to do next. Which you did with that Captain Scharfstein impersonation."

A thin smile. "Scharfstein was an afterthought. What I really did was run away."

"Of course, to the infirmary."

"No," Hogan's voice dropped to a whisper. "I ran away to the train station and headed as far away as I could."

Klink looked at him with astonishment.

"The guys cooked up the chicken pox scheme. Olsen impersonated me in the infirmary and I took off."

"You took off . . . But, but you came back."

"Yeah, I came back." He stood up and stepped away. "I saw Morrison, uh, Hans Teppel(10). We had quite a talk about commitment and things. I came up the Scharfstein idea on the train trip back here."

"I'm glad you did," Klink said quietly. "It saved me a lot of grief. And work."

Hogan smiled as he turned back to Klink. Klink's defeated look was gone; so was the slump. His grin grew. "You really thought that was me in the infirmary?"

Klink chuckled. The chuckle grew into a loud laugh. A laugh that had Hogan joining in.

Finally, the laughter stopped, but the smiles remained.

"Ready to go back?" Hogan asked.

Klink stood and nodded. "Now, I want to hear the whole story of the chicken pox."

A short laugh. "Okay. But first, Edmondson wants to know what we're going to say to your guards about his visit."

"Oh, that," Klink said in a dismissive voice. "That's Schultz's problem."

"Schultz, uh?"

"Of course. He is still the Sergeant of the Guard. Now, about that chicken pox . . . "

Hogan laughed again. Klink's laugh joined his as they climbed down the hill to the camp.

* * *

Dinner in Klink's quarters had just concluded. Louis LeBeau and Andrew Carter had removed the dessert plates from the dining table and taken them back to the kitchen. LeBeau was back a moment later holding a silver tray with a bottle and three glasses. He placed the tray in the middle of the table and bowed. "Will there be anything else, _Messieurs_?"

"No, thanks, LeBeau," Hogan said, reaching for the bottle. "And don't bother cleaning up. That can wait until morning when — " He turned to Klink. "Who's cleaning tomorrow?"

"Hirschfeld and Adler," Klink said.

"Yeah, right. They can do it."

" _Oui_ , Colonel. Then, _bon soir_ , _Messieurs_."

LeBeau bowed and left the room.

Edmondson patted his stomach as he leaned back against the chair. "I can't remember the last time I had a meal like that! He's a genius with food. What's he doing in a POW camp?" He took the glass Hogan handed him. "Thank you, Colonel." He looked at Hogan over his glass. "I don't suppose you'd let me steal him."

Hogan laughed. "Maybe after the war."

" _C'est la vie_!" Edmondson took a sip. "Wonderful cognac. Where did you get this?"

Hogan gestured at Klink and smiled. "You'll have to ask him, sir."

"I bought it the last time I was in Paris," Klink said as Edmondson looked at him. "An obscure little shop near Montmartre."

"Is the shop still there?" Edmondson asked.

A faint smile. "I'll have to check with Henry."

"Henry?" from Hogan. "One of 'the Six' Henry?"

Klink nodded. "The shop owner is a cousin of his. It attracted a number of German officers who enjoyed the finer things in life."

"Officers with big mouths?" Edmondson asked.

"Of course."

Edmondson guffawed and took another appreciative sip of his cognac.

Hogan looked at the mellow General and began slowly, "General, about that engineering aviation battalion."

Edmondson laughed and looked at Klink. "Does he ever give up?"

"Not if he really wants something."

"Get on your nerves much?"

"All the time."

Edmondson laughed again. "Okay, Hogan. Say your piece."

A faint smile. "Yes, sir. As I said earlier, I'd like to get the sick men out of here. We don't have the materials or expertise to rebuild that runway south of here." A rueful, "We did too good a job of destroying it. More than once."

"Well, who kept rebuilding it?"

"Luftwaffe personnel," Klink answered. "When they evacuated during the fire, all their equipment and people left with them."

"So," Hogan continued, "even if we had men capable of doing the work, which we don't, we don't have the equipment."

"Okay, Hogan, you made your point about the EAB. But diverting one from areas that need an airfield for the war effort is a harder sell." He looked at the two men. "I don't want to be callous, but that's a hell of an expense in manpower and materials for the sake of a few sick men. It would be far easier to send in a medical unit."

"Oh." Hogan thought a moment. "I see your point, General. But one of the things Randall," he still couldn't keep the hatred out of his voice, "mentioned was that the brass was thinking about using us as a supply area or the like. Wouldn't that need an airfield?"

Edmondson laughed. "Now you're thinking like an administrator, Hogan. Good." He thought a moment, while noting the exchange of looks between Hogan and Klink. "I think an experienced EAB is out of the question; there's just too much demand for them. But I think I can wangle a green EAB. Any objections to that?"

"I'll take anyone who can rebuild that airfield."

"I'm not sure, but I think there might be a Negro EAB rotating to England in a week or so. Zero experience . . . "

"I'll take them," Hogan said.

"Can't guarantee how trained they'll be. Most Negro EABs weren't given the best training."

"They'll learn. If they're anything like the men here, they'll make up for it with enthusiasm."

Edmondson smiled. "I agree. Okay, Hogan. I'll grab them for you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Anything else, besides the list you already gave Mason?"

Hogan started to shake his head. And stopped. "I'm not sure this is in your purview." Edmondson looked at Hogan over his glass. "Any chance of getting a Red Cross observer here?"

Klink and Edmondson stared at him.

"Whatever for?" Edmondson asked.

"Well, we do have a town here that's in really bad shape. A neutral party may have some ideas for them."

"A neutral party may not be able to help, Hogan. Technically, the town is under martial law and bound by military occupation rules. And they're pretty strict."

"But — "

Edmondson held up his hand. "I know. This area is special. Between you, and you," he nodded at Klink, "this area was only nominally enemy territory." A sudden smile. "I wouldn't worry about the town. Or your friends here, German or Allied."

"Thank you, sir," Hogan said and added, "If you do get a Red Cross person here, I'd like to recommend someone."

Edmondson chuckled. "You're full of requests, Hogan. Okay, who?"

"Her name is Vrina Barish."

Klink blinked at the name.

"She visited the camp last July," Hogan continued. "Remember, Kommandant?"

Klink nodded. "I didn't think you were very impressed with her."

"Well . . . "

And Hogan remembered.

* * *

 _It was a glorious day in early July, a day rendered lovelier by the very scarceness of such days. Warm, sunny days with blue, cloudless skies were not the norm for northern Germany — even in summer.(_ _11)_

 _Hogan and most of the other prisoners had been in the compound when General Burkhalter's car pulled through the main gate. Hogan's first thought was, "Uh-oh . . . what does he want?" Looking across the compound to Klink's office, he saw Klink coming down the steps with an expression clearly indicating his thoughts mirrored Hogan's._

 _"General Burkhalter, what a pleasant surprise! And what brings you to our little camp, sir?"_

 _"This is a surprise inspection, Klink."_

 _"Oh, I'm certain you will find everything in order, Herr General," Klink fawned._

 _"Yes," Burkhalter said dryly. "But I am not the one to please."_

 _Hogan looked back at the car, suddenly realizing there was someone else in it._

 _"It's a girl!" LeBeau exclaimed._

 _She was bending over, gathering some papers that had spilled from her briefcase, which was why no one had noticed her before._

 _Hogan couldn't hear Burkhalter's introduction over the comments of his men. And he needed to know who she was and what she was doing there._ _He headed closer to the General, in time to hear the woman say in a pleasant voice, "How nice to see you again, Kommandant Klink."_

 _Klink bowed over her outstretched hand. "Fräulein Barish. How may I assist you?"_

 _"I am here to inspect the camp, Kommandant," she said, smiling. "I should warn you, it will be a thorough inspection. I need to look over all your records, check your facilities, and interview the prisoners. Unsupervised, if you please. I should warn you that it will take some time."_

 _"Of course, Fraulein. Take all the time you need."_

 _After listening fruitlessly for a while as the girl in Klink's office turned page after endless page, Hogan went back outside. He found Klink wandering alone around the perimeter wire. Burkhalter and his staff car were absent._

 _"So who's the lady, Kommandant?" Hogan asked._

 _"Her name is Vrina Barish. From the International Red Cross. She's inspecting the camp. You and your men should keep yourselves available; she may want to interview you later."_

 _"Well, I'll have to check my social calendar — "_

 _"I'm not in the mood for your jokes, Hogan."_

What else is new? _"I got the notion that you know her. Had you met before?"_

 _"Some years ago. In Munich."_

 _"Where's General Burkhalter?" Hogan asked._

 _"He went into town. The Hofbrau I think."_

 _"And didn't invite you? Shameful."_

 _"Colonel Hogan, General Burkhalter enjoys my company no more than I enjoy his."_

 _"Brave thing to say, Kommandant!"_

 _"Yes, and if you quote me, I regret I shall have to have you shot," Klink replied with a smile. Hogan smiled back — for a second. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the barracks._

 _Shortly after that, Fräulein Barish called Klink into his office, and Hogan's men gathered around the coffeepot to listen in on the conversation._

 _It didn't yield much, beyond her description of some slight irregularities in one record, and a minor accident. She had knocked a stack of papers off Klink's desk, and then bumped into Klink in her apologetic attempt to pick them up._

 _After a short pause, they heard her say, "I'd like to tour your Stalag, Kommandant."_

 _"Of course, Fräulein. After you."_

 _Hogan yanked the wire from the coffeepot hastily and carefully put the listening device away._

 _The door opened and Klink entered with Vrina Barish, a petite woman with a decent if not outstanding figure. She seemed young with big, chocolate-brown eyes framed by thick glasses and curling brown hair._

 _Klink made the introductions. "Colonel Hogan, I would like to present Miss Vrina Barish of the International Red Cross. Miss Barish, this is Colonel Robert Hogan, senior POW officer."_

 _"Colonel Hogan." She spoke in English, extending a small hand._

 _"American?" he asked her._

 _She smiled. "Well, some people will argue that New York City is a country all its own."_

Not bad looking, not afraid of Klink, or Burkhalter, and she has a sense of humor.

 _Klink gave the men instructions to cooperate. Klink then bowed and exited with a more subdued exit than the usual pompous departure._

 _"Coffee?" Hogan asked, and smiled winningly as she accepted a cup. "Klink tells me he's known you for a while."_

 _"I was in Munich on business during the '30's. We met there."_

 _"The '30's? Aren't there laws against child labor?"_

 _Hogan's men laughed and gathered around her as she looked down at her coffee cup._

 _She smiled. "You're quite gallant, Colonel. But I assure you I am older than I look. Now, I have some questions to ask you and your men." She took out a notebook and pen, looking around at the men. "Don't be afraid of speaking your minds. Nothing you tell me will get back to the Germans unless you want it to."_

 _The men readily agreed to the interviews, and for the next couple of hours, they had a mutual exchange of information. Hogan noticed with reluctant admiration that she was very good at what she did, gaining the men's trust and getting them to open up, asking questions that led to stories, anecdotes, and more complete answers than they might have otherwise given. And in turn, she talked to them, filling them in on the world outside, telling what she knew about the progress of the war._

 _Afterwards, Hogan took her around the camp, walking her through the rows of barracks._

 _"All things considered, Colonel," she said, "your men are coping very well in this camp. Decent food, decent treatment, no crowding, and the discipline seems to be within acceptable bounds."_

 _"A veritable paradise," Hogan said flippantly._

 _"Hardly." Her voice was dry. "But believe me when I say conditions are worse in many camps I've seen."_

 _"I guess."_

 _"How long have you been here, Colonel Hogan?"_

 _He stopped walking and looked at her, his hands jammed into his pockets. The bitterness was apparent in his reply. "Too long."_

 _She looked at him calmly, and he felt guilty for snapping. "I'm sorry. About two and a half years."_

 _"That is a long time," she agreed quietly. "I have carte blanche crossing the border, Colonel Hogan. I can take a message to your family, if you like. Verbal or written."_

 _He smiled faintly. "Thanks, but no thanks. I have nothing to say and no one to say it to."_

 _"According to your file, Colonel, you have at least one person to say things to. Your mother is still alive."_

 _"My mother couldn't even help me when I lived at home," Hogan replied. "Nice lady. Baked good cookies, but she couldn't keep the bad things from happening. What would she do with me here? I write duty letters once a month. She knows I'm alive. She sends cookies, and the guards eat them. Just as helpful as she ever was, my mother. So, what is there to say?"_

 _She looked silently at him, and he sighed._

 _"As Newkirk would say, I think I'm in a 'bit of a snit' today. I'm sorry," Hogan said, smiling ruefully. "I'm normally a lot more charming, especially when the people I'm supposed to charm are women."_

 _She laughed. "I'm sure you are, Colonel. Burdens of command, I suppose."_

 _"Yeah." A dramatic sigh. "It's lonely at the top, as they say."_

 _She looked thoughtful. "You should have someone to talk to. Your men seem to like you."_

 _"My men like me because I always come through for them. Someday I'll make a wrong decision, or maybe even one they don't agree with — and they'll want to walk. It's happened before."(_ _12)_

 _"In a POW camp, Colonel, such a situation shouldn't arise. At least, not under normal circumstances."_

 _"Maybe things here aren't so normal." And he looked away._

 _"Maybe you should talk to Kommandant Klink. He knows how it feels to have responsibility for men's lives."_

 _He looked at her incredulously. "And you had me thinking you were smart, lady."_

 _"You don't think much of Kommandant Klink, do you, Colonel Hogan?" she asked._

 _"I don't think of him at all."_

 _"Yes," she said dryly. "Obviously not. May I ask why?"_

 _"Well, let's just say we have nothing in common."_

 _"You have one thing in common, Colonel. You are both human."_

* * *

Hogan stopped the thought as Klink and Edmondson looked at him curiously. "Yeah, I guess I wasn't too polite when she left the next day. But I met her again when Field Marshall Strommberger 'volunteered' us during the Battle of the Bulge(13). She was stranded at the fuel depot we helped keep in Allied hands." He looked at Klink. "I never did tell you the story, did I?"

"Life became very hectic for both of us with Hochstetter prowling around and the budget cuts," Klink said. "And then later, when you kindly saved my life." He sipped his cognac. "There are a great many things we've never talked about."

"Well, you've both got time now," Edmondson said philosophically. He leaned back with a sigh and smiled at Klink. "Now, where did you say that shop was?"

* * *

Sergeant Hans Schultz walked into the mess hall with Sergeant Karl Langenscheidt. Nearly all of the 117 former guards were there for the evening meal, most of them already seated and eating. Ten of them, part of the camp's regular mess staff, were filling the trays of those still on the mess line. The rest of them, save for Captain Gruber, came in after Schultz and Langenscheidt and joined the mess line.

"Where is Hauptmann Gruber, Sergeant?" asked Rolf Adler, a somewhat chunky 18-year-old private standing behind Schultz.

"He was invited to join the captains and the General's aide for dinner. Danke, Freitag," Schultz said to the private who had just put a couple of pork chops on his mess tray; mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables followed. A small portion of canned fruit was added at the end, along with a cup of coffee.

"Is there any dessert?" Schultz asked Lt. Brian Gayles(14) who was standing at the end of table.

Gayles grinned at the large sergeant and nodded toward a smaller table. "Help yourself when you're done, Schultz."

"Danke!" Schultz said with a lilt in his voice.

Schultz sat at the table closest to the dessert table. He was joined by Langenscheidt and the other corporals — Jakob Nagel, Klaus Krieger and Oskar Kaufmann.(15)

"That's an honor, isn't it, Sergeant?" Adler asked as he carefully carried his tray to a table where some of the youngest former guards were sitting.

"Ja." And Schultz applied himself to his dinner.

As Schultz ate, no one asked him any questions. But he knew it was a temporary situation. The men were more than curious about the visiting general who had made a point of talking with the Kommandant alone. And Schultz wasn't sure what to tell them. The Kommandant had told him to answer the men's questions truthfully as long as he named no names. And had told him to use his judgment as to how much to tell the men. And that was Schultz's problem. He had known these men, some of them no more than boys, only a few months. He trusted some of them implicitly, such as Kaufmann, Reinwald, Hirschfeld, Krieger, Nagel and a few others. But could he trust all of them? The real troublemakers such as Wendorf and Schuster had left with the Nazis weeks ago(16). But some of these men were incapable of taking that long and arduous trip down to the plains, and he wasn't sure if he could trust all of them. Schultz gave an inward sigh as he finished his meal, stood and put his discarded tray on a side table. He went over to the dessert table, and took a large slice of cake, marble cake Lt. Gayles had called it, and some cookies. Back at the table, he began eating slowly. Slowly to enjoy the food, and slowly to forestall the questions he knew were coming.

Finally, he could stall no more. Freitag silently refilled his coffee cup and took his dessert plates. Schultz put a generous helping of sugar and powdered milk into the coffee and stirred slowly. His eyes swept the mess hall's occupants as he took a long sip of the hot coffee. Most of the men had finished eating. Only the men who had been on mess hall duty were still eating. Lt. Gayles had disappeared along with his Allied staff, leaving the cleanup to the Germans. Now, only the former German guards remained in the mess hall. Former guards with questions. But . . .

Schultz slowly, deliberately, put his coffee cup on the table and looked at the men. Each of them. The former prisoners would have astonished at his inspection. He was no longer the jovial, rotund sergeant who had looked the other way or closed his eyes to what was going on around him. Now, one could see him as the owner of a successful business in prewar Germany, the man who had taken a small local toy shop and turned it into the largest toy company in Germany. And these men were his employees. And while an owner owed his employees the truth, he did not owe them all of it.

"Sergeant."

It was Private Fritz Gottschalk. Gottschalk was one of the last guards assigned to the camp, one who had supposedly been in combat, one who had been able to avoid being wounded and had managed to be assigned to a safe POW camp. He had been a supply clerk, Schultz remembered. One who had thought he would be assigned to the same position in Stalag 13 and was angry to discover that Langenscheidt was in charge of the supplies. Langenscheidt who had once liked everyone, who had once trusted everyone, and even feared to one degree or another everyone, Langenscheidt instinctively didn't like or trust Gottschalk. Which meant that Schultz, and by extension the Kommandant and Hogan, shouldn't trust him either.

Schultz deliberately picked up his coffee cup. "Ja?" He took a sip of the liquid as he eyed Gottschalk.

"The Kommandant . . . He and that Ami General . . . They were very friendly."

"They have known each other for a long time," Schultz said with a shrug. "Since before the war."

Gottschalk looked disbelieving. "Before the war? Why would a German know an American general? How would a German know an American general?"

Schultz shrugged again. "The Kommandant has had a long career. He met many officers from many countries. Some of them attended the same military schools that the Kommandant attended."

"German military schools?" Gottschalk said in an incredulous tone.

Schultz's lips curled in open derision. "Are you that stupid, Gottschalk?" One of the younger privates tittered behind Gottschalk. "There were American observers in German military schools and Germans in American military schools for a good many years before the war. It is not unusual that some had become friends."

"It is when there is a war!"

"Ja, the war." Schultz took another sip of coffee. "You care about the war?"

"What do you mean? Of course, I care about the war."

"Then why are you here?"

"What?"

"You were assigned to Model's Army Group B, the 15th Army, as one of their supply clerks," Schultz emphasized the last word. "You should be somewhere near Kassel, not here."

"I was assigned here."

"Ja, you were. You were a sergeant; you were stripped of your rank, accused of the theft of military supplies, and assigned here."

Gottschalk flushed. "It was a mistake. I should not be here!"

"You had your chance to be gone," Schultz said coldly. "You could have left with Schuster and the others to rejoin the fighting. Or later, before the Kommandant surrendered the camp and let those who wished to go leave. But you did not. You have no physical problems to prevent you from going, you still believe the lies told by those Hunde in Berlin, and you sneer at and belittle everyone when you think they do not hear you. So, why are you still here?"

Gottschalk glared at him.

Schultz let the silence linger for a few moments. Then, "Instead of complaining that the Kommandant and the General know each other, you should be grateful."

"Grateful?"

"Ja, grateful. You have just finished a meal such as none of us have had in many months, such as most of our countrymen are denied because of those fools in charge of our beloved Germany. But then, those in charge do not deny themselves, do they?"

"Nein, they do not!" shouted Pvt. Ruprecht Finster. A former artillery man in his early thirties, he had lost an arm and a leg to a defective German shell. "When I was hospitalized, I saw them. We patients got the dregs, but the Party people, inspectors and officers, they got what we should have had!"

Some of those who had been previously injured nodded in agreement.

"And the Gauleiters(17)!" added sixty-year-old Ludwig Dengler. "The one in charge of my home district — he lived like a king in a castle at the expense of the people he was supposed to care for. Some complained." A derisive snort. "They found themselves in cells or in combat!"

There were even more nods of agreement.

And there were more comments from others along similar veins. And open discussions among the men about things they'd seen and heard over the past ten years. But Gottschalk, Schultz noticed, stayed out of them. He didn't even bother defending the Nazi government or the military from the oozing anger of the men.

"Schultz," Nagel, half-shielding his burned face, whispered in Schultz's ear, "he is trouble."

"I know."

Kaufmann leaned closer, carefully easing the stump of his left arm unto the table. "We will keep an eye on him."

"How many others?" Schultz finally asked.

"Perhaps a dozen, if that," the elderly Klaus Krieger said. "But Gottschalk is the leader; he talks well when he knows you are not around."

"If _you_ are around?"

"He is cautious," Nagel said. "But not suspicious."

"Gut. Make certain you see _Nothing._ "

Nagel hid his smile as he got up to leave.

* * *

Later that night after Edmondson's plane had left, Wilhelm Klink was on his porch, watching the nighttime sky.

Hogan walked over. "I just heard that Operation Varsity is in full swing at Wesel. And Operation Plunder."(18)

Klink nodded.

"And I suppose you know all about them."

Klink shook his head. "Not in any detail. My people have been radioing information on troops and weapons in that area to London for a while now. And there have been intensive bombings by the Allies for the past couple of weeks, as well as camouflaging smoke covering the preparations. I guessed it was going to be a big operation."

Hogan snorted. "Big is an understatement. According to the reports we're getting, it's the largest air operation of the war.(19) One report said that planes were strung out over 500 miles flying in paratroopers and supplies. We were damned lucky to get any free planes out of the 8th Air Force to deliver our stuff this morning. Montgomery and Simpson's forces number over a million British, Americans and Canadians on the ground, which makes it the largest European land operation since D-Day."

Klink winced.

Hogan noticed. "Yeah, I know. A lot of dead men."

Klink took a deep breath. "Not as many as you might think. The German forces in that area are barely a tenth of the Allies. And by now, most no longer believe Hitler's lies. Hopefully, that will keep the casualties down on both sides."

"Yeah, hopefully." Hogan looked at the evening sky. "Looks so quiet, doesn't it. And a few miles away," Hogan's head shook, "thousands of guys fighting for their lives."

Klink nodded.

A sudden laugh nearby broke the silence.

"We're lucky we're here," Hogan said.

Klink nodded. "So far."

Hogan looked at him in surprise. "You think they'll reach us?"

Klink shook his head. "Not for a while. Montgomery's been told to stay away from here. And the Panzers can't get to us. Not that they'd want to; they're too busy fighting Montgomery's men who are heading east, not south. And Model's still concentrating on the Allied armies across the Rhine and south of Köln. But in time, both sides will find us."

"Well, yeah. Hopefully, the Allies first. If Edmondson can get us an EAB to repair the airfield, then we can send the sick men out of here. And get regular supply flights in as well."

Klink nodded.

"Maybe get the Red Cross here."

A thin smile from Klink. "That might be harder. The Red Cross doesn't answer to the Allies or Germans."

"True. But I can hope."

Klink glanced at Hogan. "I am a little curious. Looking back on it, you were less than charming to Fräulein Barish. May I ask why?"

A rueful half-smile as the memory came rushing back.

* * *

 _"You have one thing in common, Colonel. You are both human."_

 _Hogan laughed without amusement. "That's a matter of opinion. Or for educated debate. God! I have been here too long!"_

 _He turned away abruptly. She laid a timid hand on his arm and he didn't even stop to think. He pulled her to him and bent his head to hers._

 _And then stopped. She had gone stiff the minute he touched her; her hand was on his chest, not to caress, but to push away. He let go, and she swiftly moved out of reach._

 _Jaw clenched, she said, "I'm afraid my intentions were misinterpreted."_

* * *

"Call it male ego."

"Ahh. You made a, what is it called, 'a pass'. And she didn't appreciate it."

"No, she didn't."

"And you are not used to your charm failing."

"No."

"Is that why you want to see her again? To try to charm her?" Klink asked.

"No . . . Yes . . . Hell, I don't know."

"Didn't you try at that fuel depot?"

"Heck, no. I was too busy trying to keep us from getting blown to kingdom come by the Germans _and_ the Americans. It was a mess."

A thin smile."I suppose it was."

"Woman's got guts. She stood up to Strommberger, told him she was moving the USO girls to a safe location, and did it. She took them to the separate chapel building, away from the danger zone. And kept them there until it all ended. Then she took on Patton on behalf of the German prisoners! Anyway, at the end, she wasn't mad at me when she left for Switzerland. Even gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek."

"Hmm."

Hogan glanced at him. "You look all in."

"It's been a long day."

"Yeah, it has. Well, good night, Kommandant."

Klink nodded. "Good night, Colonel."

Klink turned and walked into his quarters. Hogan looked after him, concern in his eyes. Klink was looking more tired than usual. He still hadn't fully recovered from the past few weeks. And learning about the Allies' plans for his hometown . . .

Hogan shook his head as he ambled down the steps toward his own quarters.

* * *

Endnotes

1 _Act Three_

2 "Oil for the Lamps of Hogan"

3 Getting home was called getting a "home run" by the POWs.

4 "Eight O'clock and All Is Well"

5 "One in Every Crowd"

6 "Operation Tiger"

7 "Operation Tiger"

8 "Hogan's Double Life"

9 M. Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_ has the real behind-the-scenes account.

10 "Bad Day at Berlin"

11 For a complete account, see Mel Hughes, _Dress Rehearsal._ With the permission of the author.

12 "How to Catch a Papa Bear"

13 Mel Hughes, unpublished _Dress Rehearsal, Encore"_

14 _Act Four_

15 Ibid

16 Ibid

17 Party officials in charge of large areas akin to the old states of Germany.

18 Charles MacDonald's _The Last Offensive_ , one of the volumes in the official UNITED STATES ARMY IN WORLD WAR II series, a must for anyone interested in the last year of the war in Europe. It is now available online for free. Derek S. Zumbro's _Battle for the Ruhr_ also talks about both operations using a more first-hand accounts approach.

19 A _Stars and Stripes_ article dated 03/25/1945 announced the operations, though not by name.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

March 27, 1945

"And in today's news from the Western Front, all German Resistance west of the Rhine has ended. General Patch's Seventh Army crossed the Rhine at Worms and General Patton's Third Army, which crossed the Rhine a few days ago, is heading toward Offenbach. Units of the Third Army are attempting to penetrate the city of Frankfurt. In the north, Montgomery's mixed command of Americans, British, and Canadians has taken Wesel as heavy fighting continues. Word is reaching us that there was a recent meeting of Generals Eisenhower, Bradley and Simpson with British Field Marshall Montgomery and Prime Minister Winston Churchill not far from the fighting near Wesel."

* * *

It wasn't the best day, "fair" the weather service would call it, but the severe winter weather seemed to be finally disappearing, and Kommandant Wilhelm Klink was walking outside the camp's fence without his overcoat.

He paused near the back gate. Outside the fence across the road from the back gate, there was a group of some twenty men gathered behind one of the American lieutenants. Steve Patterson, Klink noted, one of the airmen sent to the camp last summer. In the past, he'd rarely seen Patterson, lean, dark-haired, an inch or two taller than he, from one of the western American states. Since the surrender, Patterson, an avid hunter before the war, had taken to teaching some of the former prisoners how to use weapons. At first, he'd used the weapons in the camp's armory. But the former unlamented commanding officer Colonel Francis Randall(1) had brought American handguns, rifles, submachine guns, and boxes of ammunition when he arrived in the camp. And more weapons and ammunition had been airdropped since then. So now, Patterson was teaching some of the former prisoners how to use those weapons. Klink and Hogan approved. Given the circumstances of the past, few of the prisoners had had an opportunity to practice the skills they'd learned months or years before in training. And given that the camp was still surrounded by Field Marshall Model's Army Group B, having men proficient in using the various weapons in the camp's arsenal was a good precaution.

Today's lesson, Klink noted, involved handguns. Volunteers had set up several targets at various distances in the field. Klink moved closer to observe.

Patterson was showing one of the American handguns. "A semi-automatic," Patterson was saying. "It's a Colt 1911, standard issue for the U.S. guys." He took the magazine out of the gun and handed the weapon to one of the soldiers. "Here, pass it around, get a feel for it. Jenkins," he addressed a short thin man, "hand out more of them."

"Yes, sir," said Corporal Manny Jenkins(2) and began passing around a number of the unloaded weapons.

Patterson, his eyes sweeping the group, noticed Klink standing on the periphery of the former prisoners. "Hey, Dunbar!"

"Yes, sir?" answered Private James Dunbar as he came over.

"You were at the bridge when Klink killed that SS guy(3), weren't you?" Patterson asked in a low voice.

"Yes, sir. Shocked the heck out of me when he did."

"How did he do it?"

"How?"

"Yeah, how?"

"He just . . . I'm really not sure, sir. Suddenly, he had a gun pointed at — what was his name — Danziger? Yeah, Danziger's head. And Klink killed him."

"How far away was Klink?"

"Just out of the guy's reach."

"So, only a few feet."

"Yeah, guess so. Uh, why, sir?"

"Well, hell, a blind man could have killed Danziger at that range."

"I guess . . . "

Jenkins was back, and confused by the conversation. "Sir?"

"Jenkins, have you ever seen Klink fire a handgun?"

"A few times."

"So have I, and he didn't do too well."

"I guess. But, sir, his alter ego's reputation . . . Heck, Colonel Hogan said Klink had saved his life a couple of times with a handgun."

"Yeah, he did. But I've been hearing stories about his alter ego since I first got here. And the stories just get bigger and bigger with each telling. I mean, when on earth did he manage to practice? I don't care how good a shot someone is, they'll lose it if they don't practice."

"Including you, sir?" from Dunbar.

Patterson grinned. "I got into the tunnels a few times with Colonel Hogan's permission and kept practicing. And I've been shooting since I was old enough to hold a gun."

Klink heard him as he came closer. "Isn't that unusual, Lieutenant?"

Patterson turned to Klink. "Morning, sir. Not in Idaho where I grew up. Hunted with my brothers and father since I was a kid. Heck, even my mother and sister were good shots." Patterson took back the Colt he'd handed around. "Have you seen one of these, Kommandant?"

Klink eyed the handgun. "I have seen them, but I have never used one. I understand the range is much shorter than the Luger."

Patterson nodded. "Yes, sir. But it's the same as the Walther, roughly 82 feet."

Klink looked at the targets in the field. "Is that the furthest target?"

"Not quite, sir. That's 75 feet. The others are at 15, 30, and 45 feet. We'll work up to it gradually since the boys are mighty rusty."

"Yes, I did frown on the prisoners using firearms."

Patterson grinned. "Yes, sir, you did. Would you like to try?"

"Well . . . "

"Just practice, sir."

"I'll hold your riding crop, sir," Dunbar offered.

"Well, all right." Klink gave him the crop.

"Here, sir." Patterson handed Klink the unloaded gun.

Klink hefted it in his hand. "A little heavier than the Luger or the Walther."

"Yes, sir. Heavier recoil too."

Klink held the gun up, squinting at the sight.

Curious, others had joined the waiting men. Unseen, Hogan and Captain Mitchell stood watching from the fringes of the crowd.

"Here, sir." Patterson handed Klink the magazine.

Klink took it, turned it in his hand and studied the Colt. "In here?"

"Yes, sir."

Klink inserted the magazine into the gun.

"And it slides so?" Klink's fingers awkwardly slid the bolt.

"Yes, sir. The first bullet is now in the chamber."

"The magazine holds how many bullets?"

"Seven total, sir."

Klink looked at the targets. "Well . . . " He started toward the nearest target.

"No, sir," Patterson stopped him. "Behind this line, sir." Patterson showed him.

"Oh, thank you." Klink backed up and glanced at the targets. "Perhaps you'd better get behind me." He looked at the watching men. "Perhaps all of you should move further back."

Patterson smiled tolerantly. "Right, sir." And stepped back, motioning to the others as well.

Obediently, the men moved further away and saw Klink eyeing the closest target.

Klink glanced at the targets and looked back at the observers. He raised the Colt in both hands, seemingly at the observers, and before Patterson could shout a warning, he swiveled into a perfect stance, fired seven rapid shots at the farthest target, and lowered the weapon.

In the silence that followed, Jenkins ran to the target and stared at it. Then he looked back at the watching men. He held up seven fingers and pointed at the center.

Patterson shoved his cap up on his head and started laughing, and clapping. He was joined by the others. "You got me good, sir," he said, still laughing.

Hogan walked over. "I could've told you that, Patterson," he said with a grin. "He did it to me often enough!"

"Sir, how did you learn to do that?"

"Hours and hours of practice," Klink said. "Many of them here."

"Sir, I've seen you shoot here," Patterson said in a puzzled voice. "You were pretty bad."

A faint smile. "Lieutenant Patterson, do you know how difficult it is to seemingly miss a target, deliberately shoot something else, and maintain the fiction that you were really intending to hit the target?"

"I never thought of that, sir."

"No, I imagine few people would. But if it makes you feel better, Lieutenant, for a good many years I could barely hit the closest target." He returned the empty Colt to Patterson. "I prefer the Luger since it has a longer range. Much more useful when I'm trying to remain invisible."

A serious smile. "Yes, sir, I guess it would be. Sir, how are you on rifles?"

"Not as good. Rifles are nearly impossible to conceal, so I rarely use them. But away from here, I have practiced as much as I could."

"We actually have far more rifles than handguns. So, with your permission, sir," Patterson looked at Hogan, "I'm thinking of setting up a permanent rifle range."

Hogan nodded. "Good idea." He thought a minute. "I don't know if it's practical, but I'd like to get every healthy man in camp somewhat proficient on the weapons."

"I can't do it by myself, sir," Patterson said.

Hogan smiled faintly. "I'll make an announcement tonight. You can't be the only man in camp who's good with a gun or rifle."

"I know I'm not, sir. It's just been kind of hard to get much practice in the tunnels."

Hogan laughed. "I guess so. Talk to Captain Mitchell later today." He gestured toward the eagle-faced man at the edges of the crowd.

"Yes, sir. If you don't mind, sirs, I'll get back to the class."

Hogan nodded as Klink retrieved his riding crop from Dunbar. The two men fell into step and headed toward the back gate.

"You know that story is going to make the rounds of the camp," Hogan said with a smile. "I'm a bit surprised you did it."

"If you want the truth, I am too."

"I'm glad you're starting to let your hair down."

Klink stopped. "You're glad I'm what?"

"Letting your hair down." He looked at Klink's confused expression. "Oh. Um . . . What I mean is you're letting yourself go . . . What I mean is, you're starting to relax, to loosen up a bit. And . . . " He looked skyward as a loud droning cut across his words. He couldn't see anything due to the clouds. But . . .

"And the war intrudes again," Klink said softly. "B-24s?"

Hogan nodded. "And fighters too." He looked at Klink's set face. "It will end, Wilhelm."

A bitter, "Before or after Germany is bombed out of existence." With that, he walked away from Hogan, heading toward the road again.

Hogan sighed and shook his head as he went through the back gate.

* * *

Endnotes

1 _Act Four_

2 _Act One_

3 _Act Four_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

March 27, 1945

Hogan and Klink were in the recreation hall after dinner for their nightly game of chess. As usual, the radio was on; it was now playing big band records. Klink had just made his seventh move of the game when a radio announcer interrupted the music saying, "This just came in."

Someone turned the radio up.

The announcer cleared his throat. "'To be or not to be . . . '"

Klink's eyes lifted from the chessboard.

"'For who would bear the whips and scorns of the oppressor. That is the question.'"(1)

Hogan didn't notice Klink's intentness. "Your move, Kommandant."

Klink didn't stir as Newkirk said, "That wasn't right," when the radio returned to music. "That's from Hamlet's big soliloquy in Scene III. But it's all messed up. Isn't it, Kommandant?" Newkirk said, turning to Klink.

Klink seemed to look through him.

"Kommandant?" Hogan said.

Klink made a visible effort to rouse himself. Unexpectedly, he stood and tipped his king over, conceding the game.

"Hey! Where are you going?" Hogan demanded, worry making his voice angry.

Klink stopped at the door and looked at him. "What you did for me," Klink said in a quiet voice, "I must do for someone else."

"Alone?" Hogan asked in a harsh voice.

Klink stayed silent.

Hogan took a deep breath. "Officially, you're still my prisoner. Where you go, I go."

Klink nodded soberly, but said, "Your war is over, Robert," using his name publicly for the first time. "Mine isn't. You'll be risking death for someone you don't know."

Hogan stood. "I'll take the risk."

Klink nearly smiled. "If you mean it, meet me at the motor pool in thirty minutes. Not one minute longer; I will not wait. But consider carefully; you may not come back."

Hogan nodded. "Wilhelm," also using his name publicly for the first time, "if you leave early, I promise I'll tear Germany apart looking for you."

This time, Klink did smile. "Agreed." A glance at his watch. "Thirty minutes. And we'll need to travel very light."

"Where are we going?" Hogan managed to ask as the door was closing.

The answer drifted back to him. "Leipzig!"

Hogan's men looked at each other and stood.

"Colonel, we'd like to go with you," Kinch said.

Hogan looked at them in turn; each man nodded. "You heard him; you might not come back."

Kinch shrugged with seeming nonchalance. "We always wanted to go on a real job with him, sir. This is our last shot at it."

The others nodded agreement.

Hogan smiled faintly. "Let's go."

...

There was chaos in Barracks 2 as Hogan and his men got ready. Witton, the other three captains and the barracks occupants stayed out of the way. The uniforms were discarded, and black sweaters and pants were donned. Small firearms and ammunition were brought up from the tunnels. And a few other things.

"Carter!" Hogan looked pointedly at the over-sized pack in the young sergeant's hand. "He said we're to travel light."

"This is light, Colonel," Carter said earnestly. "I've only got a few sticks of dynamite, some nitro, some caps, some . . ." He trailed off as Hogan shook his head.

"I told you, Andrew," Newkirk said.

"But, Colonel," Carter started.

"Unless it fits in your pockets, it stays," Hogan said firmly.

Carter managed a dejected, "Yes, sir."

Hogan turned to Witton. "The camp's all yours, Captain." He held out his hand.

Witton shook his hand. "I expect to give it back to you in a few days, Colonel."

Hogan smiled faintly. "I expect the same thing." He looked at his men. "Ready?"

They nodded, serious expressions on their faces.

Hogan, his men and the others in the barracks went out into the compound. The pale sun was low on the western horizon; reddish streaks stained the clouds and the darkening sky. Soon, they would fade.

Hogan looked around. Many of the men in the camp, including some of the former guards, had gathered into quiet groups. Word had obviously gotten around as to what was going to happen.

Klink, dressed in black, was waiting outside the motor pool. A worried-looking Schultz was standing next to him.

Klink's eyes swept Hogan's men, not surprised at seeing them "You can still change your mind," he said.

Hogan shook his head.

Klink smiled faintly. "I will take the motorcycle; follow me in the two jeeps. It will take roughly an hour to get to the field. Schultz," he turned to his waiting sergeant, "you know where we are going. Keep monitoring the emergency channel. Do not expect to hear anything for at least eighty-four hours. But if there is nothing after that," his eyes met Schultz's, "it is likely that there will not be any good news."

" _Jawohl, Herr Kom . . . Mein Herr_."

Klink smiled briefly and went to the waiting motorcycle. He took a black jacket from the seat and slipped it on. Then he settled a helmet over his head. He waited as Hogan and his men went over to the two jeeps. Hogan, Kinch and Carter sat in one; Baker, Newkirk and LeBeau took the other. The three engines started. With Klink leading the way, they left the camp.

"Where is the Kommandant going?" a voice asked Captain Mitchell.

"To rescue one of his men," Mitchell said, his eyes on the departing vehicles.

"But . . . but we are his men."

Mitchell swung around and found himself staring at young Private Gustav Hirschfeld. The 16-year-old boy was looking at him with bewilderment and concern. Around him were several other Germans, also looking confused. And Mitchell didn't know what to say.

But Fritz Gruber did. " _Ja_ , we are his men," the Luftwaffe captain said evenly. "And he has watched over us and protected us. But he has men outside the camp too. And he will do what he can to protect them as well."

"Schultz is worried," Corporal Oskar Kaufmann said quietly.

"He's not the only one," Witton said as he walked by.

...

Hogan had thought he'd known the area around the camp and Hammelburg well. But as he followed Klink, he realized that there were still parts that he didn't know. Of course, his excuse was that there had never been any wartime plants in the area they were traveling. Now, they were on virtually nonexistent one-lane roads, all but invisible under the tall unfriendly trees. Their dim headlights were swallowed up by the gloom. The just rising nearly full moon was intermittently glimpsed through the trees and clouds, but it provided no helpful light. After a while, Hogan realized they were slowly climbing and that the track had disappeared.

Klink's cycle stopped, though the engine was still running; the two jeeps stopped behind it.

Hogan looked around; it seemed to be a dead end. Until Klink went over to a densely covered area and reached behind the bushes. A gate silently swung out. Klink got back on the cycle and went through the gate into a seeming pit of darkness. The two jeeps followed. Klink waited beside the gate until the jeeps went through; he then closed the gate behind them.

Just a few yards down the surprisingly level field were two ramshackle barns, one on each side of the field.

Klink pointed to the one on the eastern side. "Stop over there."

Now parked beside the old barn, Klink walked over to a clump of bushes. He searched under one of them and pulled something, a key, from the ground. He walked back to the door and unlocked the sturdy padlock on the door. The door swung open. Standing inside the barn was an airplane, barely large enough for all of them.

"So that's how you managed to show up all over Germany," Hogan said. He walked closer to it and whistled softly. "It's a Junkers W34, isn't it?"

Klink looked at him in surprise. "Yes."

Hogan nodded. "I saw one once after a Junker broke the world altitude record in 1929."

Klink smiled unseen; how many Americans would even know that? "I'll take her out. Then bring the jeeps and the motorcycle inside and close the door. Don't bother with the lock; nobody comes here now."

Klink climbed into the plane and started it. A powerful engine roared into life. Slowly, the plane moved. As soon as it cleared the barn, Hogan's men parked the vehicles inside and closed the door. Hogan looked around. He couldn't see the end of the field; it disappeared into darkness.

Klink had moved the plane to the southern end of the field in front of the gate; he waited for the men to join him.

Hogan's men climbed inside the small plane; there was just enough room for them behind the two front seats.

"Chummy in here," Newkirk murmured.

Hogan smiled as he settled into the seat next to Klink. He peered into the darkness. Now that all the lights were off, he could barely see anything. The moon was still very low, only just touching the trees that encircled the field. No, he amended silently, the northern end didn't have any trees. None. Not even a bush. And despite himself, Hogan felt a twinge of panic. Then he realized why there weren't any trees there. And from the sudden silence behind him, his men had figured it out as well.

Carter's voice came timidly over Hogan's shoulder. "That . . . that's a cliff, isn't it, sir."

Klink didn't reply. Instead, he throttled the plane to full power; it felt as if they were sitting in the engine.

Hogan glanced at Klink's profile, hoping he knew what he was doing. Then he was embarrassed by the thought. Still doubting Klink? No, just nerves, and the realization that he wished he was the one at the controls.

"Sure you know how to fly this thing?" Hogan quipped.

Klink smiled. "We are about to find out."

The plane started to move. Fast. Hogan found himself gripping the seat, saying a small prayer.

All too quickly, the field ended, and the small plane shot into a dark well. For a terrifying, mercifully brief moment, the plane sank before Klink was able to right it. Audible signs of relief sounded from the others as the plane continued skyward.

"We will be in Leipzig in a couple of hours," Klink said. "Edmondson was able to get me the targets for the various Air Force groups so we can avoid bombers. But keep your eyes open for any planes, Allied or otherwise, that might be flying."

Hogan nodded. "Can you tell us anything about the mission?"

Klink shook his head. "I know little beyond what I told you. One of the Six, Hamlet, was taken, which is what the radio message meant. I sent a message saying I was on my way. But I was more concerned about getting to Leipzig, hence the call to Edmondson."

"Excuse me for asking, sir," Kinch said. "But how do you know he's still alive?"

Klink was silent for a moment. "The message was for a live capture. Do I know if he is still alive, the answer is no. But," a swift glance at Hogan, "did you know if I was alive when you came after me? I have known Hamlet for many years. If I had not specifically ordered otherwise, he would have torn the camp and the area apart looking for me when I was taken by Hochstetter. He may well be dead, but . . . "

"But you need to know," Hogan said softly.

"Yes."

For the most part, there was silence as the plane continued on its way through the night. Hogan had found a map between the front seats; he began tracking the flight on it with a flashlight. Klink, seeing his interest, gave him readings every few minutes.

The nearly full moon shone occasionally through the clouds and cast some light on the landscape passing under them. Under other circumstances, the flight would have been enjoyable, Hogan thought with a small smile. At least for him; the guys behind him were jammed in pretty tightly.

Hogan glanced back at his men. "Everything okay back there?"

"Fine, sir," Baker answered.

Newkirk's response was inaudible.

...

Hogan estimated they were about half an hour away when Klink broke his long silence. "A few points . . . After we land, you forget who I am. My name is Stage, nothing else. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sirs," sounded from the back.

"While they will know you are Allied soldiers, say nothing about where you come from. And speak only in German, even to each other."

"You're the boss, Stage," Hogan said in German.

A faint smile from Klink. Then he added in an unusually sober voice, "I must warn you. You will meet two of the Six — Cleopatra and Richard. They will be very different from the Resistance people you have met in the past. Their people cover large sections of Germany and they are both very disciplined and, if need be, ruthless, especially Richard. Some of Hamlet's men will also be there; they are SS." Hogan looked at him sharply. "Real SS, not men pretending to be. They are of necessity tough, mentally and physically, and in many respects, single-minded in following orders from Hamlet and by extension the Stage and his lieutenants. They have had to follow a harsh path to accomplish what we demanded of them. You will find them humorless, hard, unsociable and dangerous. Please do not antagonize them. And unless they approach you, stay away from them. For your sakes."

...

It was 2132 when the small plane landed on cleared firm ground surrounded by woods and fields not far from Leipzig. Klink parked the plane beside a large barn. Once they were out of the plane, they draped several camouflage nets over it. Stealthily and alertly, they crept through a grove of trees toward a great manor house surrounded by extensive gardens.

Klink stopped beside one of the picturesque gazebos dotting the back gardens. He ran his fingers over the intricate carvings on the base of the structure. He pressed and a panel in the side slid open. Before climbing in, he pulled on a thin black ski mask. The others followed him inside. They went down a metal ladder into a deep dark well. At the bottom was a dank passage, irregularly lit with flickering candle lanterns. Several hundred feet down the passage, they stopped. The Stage's fingers probed near the top of the wall and pressed; the wall swung outward, opening yet another hidden panel. And they found themselves in a cool stone room.

Hogan glanced quickly around the room. There was a wooden door opposite the hidden panel, a table with several chairs behind it, and a heavy metal door in the right wall. A large wooden cabinet stood beside that door. Against the left wall was a laden buffet table; a smaller table held plates, napkins and cutlery.

A hush fell among the people present as the six men, led by the Stage, walked further into the room.

An attractive woman in her late forties with up-swept silver hair hurried over to them. "Stage!" she whispered.

He held her hands for a moment. "Cleopatra."

"I was afraid you wouldn't come. And I was afraid you would," she admitted.

"I could not stay away," the Stage said. "I brought friends. This is Papa Bear and his men.

"You are welcome," Cleopatra said as Hogan nodded a greeting. "Come," she said to the Stage. "Your men can stay here."

"Papa Bear, with me," the Stage said as they headed toward the door in the opposite wall.

Hogan's men looked curiously at the assemblage of thirty or so men and women.

A thin blond man in his thirties with a pronounced limp approached them. "I am Ludwig. You are welcome."

"I am Kin . . ."

The man stopped him. "First names, _bitte_."

"Okay. I am James and this is Andrew, Louis, Richard and Peter."

"Richard," Ludwig repeated, looking at the tall black man. "We have several Richards here. Is there another name we may use? If you have no objections?"

Baker grinned. "Would you object to Baker?"

"Herr Baker." Ludwig's tongue tripped slightly over the name. " _Nein_ , Baker is acceptable." And smiled. "Again, welcome. If you are hungry, _bitte_ , help yourselves." Ludwig indicated the buffet table.

"Don't mind if we do," Newkirk said. He walked over, followed by the others.

...

Inside the small room, the Stage removed his mask. "Richard." The Stage went to the shorter heavyset man with dark, grim features standing beside the table.

A handshake. "I wish it could be under happier circumstances, Stage," Richard said.

"This is Papa Bear," the Stage introduced. "Are most of Hamlet's units gone?"

Cleopatra nodded. "Save for the local SS. But it is dangerous for you to be here, Stage."

"As I said, I could not stay away; he is my friend. He was taken early this morning?"

Richard nodded. "His capture was publicized almost immediately."

"How was he discovered?"

Richard's voice was bitter. "An accident. A ridiculous accident. We will tell you later. Right now, we must find a way to get to him. Before . . . "

"He dies," the Stage finished.

Hogan glanced at him. "Or breaks."

Cleopatra shook her head. "He will not break," she said in a pained voice. "He will not live long enough. They do not know it, but his heart is not strong. He will die first."

"Where is he being held?" the Stage asked.

"Here." Richard indicated the plans on the table. "Somewhere in here," he pointed. "Our people have not yet been able to give us the exact location."

"I assume they are expecting an attack," the Stage said, his eyes on the plans.

" _Natürlich_. Since they broadcast his arrest, they would be disappointed if one did not come."

"I do not plan on disappointing them," the Stage said.

"You have an idea?" Cleopatra asked.

The Stage nodded. "It is insane, but I think it will work." He explained it to them.

"No," Hogan said flatly.

"You do not have a vote," the Stage said in a mild voice.

"I agree with him," Cleopatra said, her eyes troubled. "It is mad."

"But," said Richard, mulling over the Stage's plan, "it would work."

"You are risking yourself," Cleopatra objected. "You know what they will do to you!"

"I see no other way to stop their torture of Hamlet," the Stage said. "They are expecting an attack; we give them one. One crazy enough for the Stage to carry out. It fails and they think they have won their prize. Then the real attacks begin, ones they will not expect. And they will succeed."

"At what cost?" Cleopatra demanded.

"Less than if we risk a full-scale attack. It will distract them, split their forces, and also end Hamlet's torture."

"And instead they start on you!" Hogan said.

"I do not intend to stay long," the Stage said more calmly than he felt. "Unless someone has a better idea . . . ?"

Silence answered him.

He straightened up and slipped on the mask. "Then we go."

...

In the stone room, LeBeau took a piece of sausage. His expression changed as he bit into it. "Not bad," he admitted.

The slightly stocky, taller man next to him laughed. "We Germans can make some foods well."

"Only some," the chauvinistic Frenchman said.

The man laughed again. "I am Wolfgang with Cleopatra's group."

"Louis with Papa Bear."

"You arrived with the Stage."

" _Ja_."

The door opened. The Stage, followed by Cleopatra, Richard, and Hogan, came into the room. The Stage, flanked by Cleopatra and Richard, sat behind the table in front of the door. Hogan went over to his men as the people in the room gathered closer to the table.

Cleopatra spoke. "The Stage has come up with a plan to rescue Hamlet from the SS. I warn you, it will sound insane."

There were nervous laughs from the others in the room; many of them knew just how crazy the Stage's ideas could be.

The Stage spoke. "I am known for wildly impossible plans. Most of you have been with me long enough to know that they are neither wild nor impossible. They just appear that way. But this is more than a little unusual. They are expecting an attack; we all know that. We will give them what they want."

Murmurs sounded in the crowd.

"But not the way they expect it. A full-scale attack would be disastrous; they will be ready for it. Therefore, I propose sending in one man. He will disrupt their security, wreck havoc in their headquarters and buy time.

"He will also be caught."

Shocked faces looked at the man in the mask.

"When he is, they will relax their guard, thinking they have gotten their prize. Then later, the real attack or rather attacks will start. And they will be successful."

"And who will it be?" a short, graying, fiftyish man with very thick glasses standing near Carter asked.

The masked head turned toward the speaker. "They are expecting the Stage. They will get the Stage."

"You mean someone dressed like you," a sharp-featured woman near the front said.

The Stage shook his head. " _Nein_ , it will be me."

Astonished murmurs sounded in the room.

"I will not ask anyone else to do this. Nor will I ask for volunteers. It may be vain of me, but I believe I am mad enough to be able to pull it off. I also believe I can keep them occupied for some time before they catch me."

There were no smiles among the listeners.

"They will take whoever it is to Hamlet. Directly or indirectly, he will confirm my identity."

"When they catch him, they will torture him," Wolfgang whispered, his voice shaking.

"He knows," LeBeau said, suppressing a shudder. "They have done it before."

"Once they feel secure that they have the Stage, they will relax their guard. And then after a suitable period, you and other underground units will attack. The details will be worked out by Cleopatra and Richard after I am gone. All I ask is that you do not delay too long.

"To make certain that the right man is rescued, I will take off the mask. It will also mean that those who have seen me must leave the area after the mission. Those who are not prepared to do so, please leave the room."

No one moved.

Slowly, the Stage's hand lifted toward the mask. Slowly, the mask was removed.

Wolfgang gasped as the Stage was revealed. " _Mein Gott! Nein_!"

LeBeau turned at the barely audible whisper. "You know him?" LeBeau said softly.

The man nodded; his face was unnaturally pale. " _Mein Gott_!" Wolfgang buried his face in his hands. " _Mein Gott_!"

"Please do not mistake me for another," the Stage said dryly, concluding his remarks. "I am sorry to disappoint those who believed those ridiculously romantic descriptions of me. I am afraid I am not as young or as handsome as I was made out to be."

"Oh, I don't know about that," murmured an older man near the front.

There were nervous laughs from the crowd.

"Your courage is all that it was made out to be," Richard said.

"Oh, I don't know about that," echoed the Stage amid even more nervous laughter. He stood. "I leave before dawn," he said softly. "Do not fail me."

He stood and walked into the crowd.

"He can't be serious," Kinch said.

"He is," Hogan said, anger in his voice.

"After what he's been through!" Newkirk shook his head.

Hogan looked at the Stage, making his way through the crowd. "I know."

Richard overheard him. "What has he been through?"

Hogan looked at him. "You don't know?"

Richard shook his head.

Hogan took a deep breath. "Well, let me fill you in." He and Richard stepped away from the others.

The Stage had made his way to the table at back wall. His manner indicated that he would rather be left alone. And he was. He glanced at the food and idly picked up a piece of sausage.

"I believe that one is your favorite," the man next to him said and pointed.

The Stage lifted his head and met the shorter man's eyes.

The two men stared at each other, one's eyes brimming with emotion; the other, controlling the emotion he felt.

The Stage began to smile. "This explains the explosion at the factory."

Wolfgang tried to smile as well. " _Ja_." But he couldn't.

"And Franz?"

"Another unit," Wolfgang said in a trembling voice.

"I am glad," the Stage said softly. "I am glad that our earlier discussions had some effect."

"It took a long time before we finally saw the truth. And by then, we thought you had changed." Wolfgang's voice shook. "The stories . . . " he finished lamely.

Another smile. " _Ja_ , the stories."

"We did not want to believe them, but you were never home," Wolfgang said. "And when you were . . . "

"I know," he said. "All I could hope for was that in spite of the stories you still loved me."

"Loved you!" Wolfgang's voice broke and, to LeBeau's shock, he moved toward the Stage. A warning shake of his superior's head stopped him. Wolfgang's eyes held tears. "You cannot go through with this!" he said, desperation deepening his voice.

"I must," was the quiet reply. "Nothing has changed, Wolfgang. If you cannot accept that, then leave. All of you leave immediately."

Wolfgang fought for control. " _Nein_ , I will not abandon the Stage. Especially not now."

A smile. " _Danke_ , Wolfgang."

A hand on his shoulder. Wolfgang clutched it convulsively before the Stage turned away.

LeBeau stared after the departing Stage and then back at Wolfgang. Tears on his cheeks, Wolfgang turned away from him.

The Stage returned to Cleopatra. Seeing his expression, she slipped her hand around his arm. "I could not tell you, my friend."

"I am glad I know," he said softly. "But I wish it were not tonight."

"He will not fail you," Cleopatra said. "In that respect, he is very much like you." She patted his arm and left him beside Hogan.

Hogan glanced at the still man.

"Aren't you going to ask?" the Stage asked in a low voice.

"You'll tell me when you're ready," Hogan said evenly.

A faint, sad smile. "He is my brother, Robert." He glanced at Hogan's surprised expression. "My brother(2). I had no idea he was even in the Resistance."

"It appears that courage runs in the family," Hogan said.

The Stage sighed. "Or madness."

"I'm glad you admit it," Hogan said with some heat. "You're nuts, you know. There's got to be another way."

The Stage shook his head. "Save for an all out attack that would be suicide, there isn't."

"You could leave him," Hogan said softly.

"You could have left me," the Stage said in the same tone.

Hogan's eyes met his. After a moment, Hogan's eyes fell and he shook his head.

"Neither can I leave him," the Stage whispered. Then a glance at his watch. "The next twenty-four hours promise to be difficult. I must get some sleep." He looked at Hogan. "I am open to other suggestions. But right now, I can see no alternative. Can you?"

Hogan shook his head. "I'll think of something."

A serious smile. "I hope you do, Robert. I really do." A quick look around; people were starting to drift out of the room. "Richard and Cleopatra are making their plans for the raid. Talk to her if you think of anything. But for now, there are two rooms adjacent to this one. You and your men need to sleep as well. It will be a long night and there will be more people coming later. "

Hogan's eyes stayed on the Stage as he left the room.

* * *

Endnotes

1 William Shakespeare: _Hamlet_

2 Wolfgang is mentioned in a letter from Klink's mother in "The Gypsy".


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

March 28, 1945

"In today's news of the Western Front," intoned Armed Forces Radio, "Limburg has fallen to Hodges' First Army and Patton's Third Army has taken Darmstadt. The two Armies are intending to link up near Wiesbaden. Simpson's Ninth Army is beginning to put pressure on Model's Army Group B south of the Ruhr. The British continue to advance past Wesel. Thousands of German soldiers are being taken prisoner every day. A rocket fired from the last remaining V-2 launch site hit London yesterday resulting in the deaths of over 100 civilians. Another V-2 hit Kent, killing one person."

...

It was still hours before dawn and Hogan wasn't happy. He wasn't happy with Cleopatra, with Richard, with the people around him, or with the arriving newcomers — some dressed in SS uniforms. Most of the people in the stone room were already assigned to an underground unit, either Cleopatra's or Richard's, whereas he and his men were clearly outsiders, here only because they arrived with the Stage.

And he definitely wasn't happy with the Stage. _Damn him and his stupid ideas!_ Hogan had spent several hours tossing and turning and intermittently sleeping in an adjacent room. His mind had played through every possible plan: outright attack — suicide to take on an SS garrison without an army; taking the Stage's place — never work, Hamlet didn't know him, and it would be suicide for him, not a rescue; plan after ridiculous plan. And in the end, the truth was he couldn't come up with a plan better than the Stage's. Infiltrate the place, confuse them and ultimately, get caught. And then have a rescue after the SS thought they had their prize. A really, really dumb plan. But it would take the pressure off Hamlet and lull the SS into thinking that it was over. The problem was, it would transfer the pressure to the Stage.

Now, Hogan and his men were back in the stone room. Breakfast foods had replaced the earlier supper and those around them were eager to sample the real eggs, coffee, fruits and freshly baked goods that were nearly impossible for ordinary citizens to get in Nazi Germany. Hogan and his men filled their plates, retreated to a corner and ate with little conversation.

There were roughly a hundred people in the crowded room now waiting for Cleopatra and Richard. A hundred! Hogan shook his head in disbelief. He was used to only a handful on his missions — his men and maybe two or three outsiders.

Cleopatra and Richard entered shortly thereafter. The murmurs of conversation stopped as everyone, including Hogan and his men, turned to see them sit at the table in the front of the room. Ludwig laid what seemed to be plans of the city and buildings on the table before stepping back.

Cleopatra went over the situation in Leipzig for the outsiders in the room. Leipzig, an 800-year-old city with a pre-war population of 700,000, now held nearly double that number, swelled by foreign laborers, willing or forced, and a massive influx of refugees from the advancing Soviets. It was once the home of Mendelssohn, Bach and other musical luminaries, with a 500-year-old university, museums, centuries-old churches and buildings, the largest railway station in Europe and in happier times was known for its book fairs and music festivals. It was also a city with oil refineries and factories making synthetic rubber, explosives and other wartime supplies, many of them manned by foreign labor. As such, it had been extensively bombed by the British at night and the Americans by day, leaving thousands of buildings destroyed or damaged, thousands of people dead or injured and over 140,000 homeless.

The city was protected by hundreds of anti-aircraft guns(1) that encircled the city, but the ground forces were far fewer. They were commanded by Oberst Hans von Poncet, who, Hogan was surprised to learn, had only a thousand motorized infantry troops, a few regular soldiers and the Volkssturm(2) to defend the sprawling city(3). There were 3400 police personnel under Generalleutnant(4) Wilhelm von Grolmann, the city's police chief. And there were several hundred SS in and around the city.

"They are ones we need to worry about," Cleopatra said. "Poncet is away arranging the defense of the city from invading armies; we are not an army. Grolmann is a policeman and he has no interest in defending the city from any invaders. He, unlike Poncet, will not waste lives in a futile battle he knows he cannot win, and he does not care about the SS unless it directly affects him. Oberbürgermeister(5) Freyborg and his deputy Lisso are fanatical Nazis, but they have minimal dealings with matters concerning the SS.

"To rescue the Stage and Hamlet, we need to draw as many of the SS away from them as we can. Fortunately for us, Hamlet is not being held in the main SS headquarters; he is in a separate annex located in a predominately residential area. Normally, there are fewer than fifty or sixty SS there, which greatly improves the odds from our point of view. Part of our task will be to keep the rest of the SS from helping those at the annex. Here is what we will do . . . "

The plans, complete with maps and building floor plans, had been made by Richard and Cleopatra, maybe, Hogan guessed, with input from the Stage. Hogan couldn't fault the plans; they made sense. And every man and woman there, including Hogan and his men, knew what was expected of them. How could they not? Cleopatra and Richard believed in going over the plans again and again, _ad infinitum_ , leaving Hogan to chafe silently as he listened, and listened, and listened until he was sure he could regurgitate the plans in his sleep.

He was more impressed by the weapons that Richard had shown them in the cabinet next to the door. Hogan had expected the German weapons like the Mauser rifle, the Luger and Walther pistols and stick grenades. He hadn't expected the American bazookas or the British Lancasters. And he definitely didn't expect to see any Soviet weapons. Or the assorted explosive devices that got Carter's attention. Then he frowned — there weren't enough weapons, let alone ammunition, in that cabinet for all of them. A thought anticipated by Richard.

"There are more weapons and explosives in the wine cellar, along with ammunition," Richard said. "You newcomers will be shown where later."

In the middle of the planning session, an elderly man attired in formal-wear entered the room and walked over to Cleopatra. He whispered something in her ear. She nodded and the servant slipped out of the room.

Cleopatra looked at the assembled men and women and said quietly, "The Stage is in motion."

...

A small, rusty car, clearly on its last legs, drove through the dark nearly empty streets. It had been an unusually quiet night in Leipzig. There had been no air raid sirens blaring, no sounds of hundreds of bombers passing over the still city, no pounding of the anti-aircraft guns, no bombs turning more buildings into rubble and tombs. And the citizens of Germany's fifth largest city slept in unaccustomed peace.

The morning light still had not appeared on the eastern horizon when the car passed the SS annex — the driver noted the two armed guards — and turned the corner. It stopped in the middle of the next block. The man, dressed in black, got out and locked the car door. Then he walked to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He took a small bag from it and locked the trunk again. He unobtrusively dropped the key behind the car. Pretending to lean over and pick it up, he slipped the key under the fender. The car would be picked up later.

Straightening, he walked down the block to a gate. He opened the gate onto an alley and shut it behind him. A few yards along, he slipped into a lower level doorway.

...

Hogan started at Cleopatra's quiet words, but the others in the room just accepted her statement and continued with their planning.

"Colonel," Kinch said softly in his ear, "is she saying what I think she's saying?"

Hogan nodded curtly, his emotions and mind in turmoil. The Stage had slipped away and left without saying a word, at least to him. But from the looks that passed between Cleopatra and Richard, Hogan knew the Stage had seen them.

And Hogan felt powerless. The planning was still going on, groups were still being assigned work. He couldn't leave yet or talk to Richard or Cleopatra. And the longer he had to wait, the angrier he got.

Finally, Cleopatra dismissed the gathering. They would meet back in the stone room at midnight.

"Midnight!" from Baker.

"And what the hell are we supposed to do until then?" Newkirk asked, a thunderous look on his face. "Play tiddly-winks?"

"Stay here," Hogan ordered. "I need to have a talk with those two!"

He started to walk toward Cleopatra and Richard, and stopped. He had seen Wolfgang turn away from his group. If he was worried and scared, what was Wolfgang feeling and thinking? Wasn't his problem . . . And what would Klink say about that?

Somewhat reluctantly, Hogan walked over to Wolfgang. Wolfgang was shorter than he or Klink, with a build similar to Kinch's, and a full head of black hair. Looking at him, Hogan couldn't see anything that would have identified him as Klink's brother.

A very small smile from Wolfgang, guessing Hogan's thoughts. "I take after our mother's side of the family. He is very like our _Vater_." The smile faded. "And very unlike him as well."

"I guess he thought quite a bit of his father," Hogan said.

Wolfgang glanced at Hogan. "He honored _Vater_. I am not certain that is the same thing. _Vater_ ," a deep breath, " _Vater_ was a difficult man in many respects. And Wil — " he broke off.

"There's no one around us," Hogan said quietly. "You can use his name."

A reluctant smile. "And Wilhelm had the worst of it, being the oldest."

"What was he like?" Hogan asked. "As a boy?"

A faint smile. "Sometimes, I do not think he ever was a boy. He is five years my senior and Franz is two years younger than I. Naturally, Franz and I were together more. But even as a child, he always seemed to be much older than we were. _Vater_ liked to have him around, taking him to visit his army friends. Much was expected of him. He would be the one to follow the family tradition, not Franz or I. It was his duty."

"Regardless of what he wanted to do," Hogan murmured.

"You disapprove," Wolfgang said. "So do I; we all did. Even Mama, and she rarely disapproved of anything _Vater_ did. But none of us wanted to defy him."

"He sounds like a formidable man."

Wolfgang smiled faintly. "I do not mean to make him into a tyrant. _Vater_ had a strong sense of duty. And in the family, it meant the eldest son would become a professional soldier. And he instilled that duty into his eldest son." A sigh. "But _Vater_ could not instill a love of that duty into his son. When Wilhelm was younger, perhaps it was there in some way. But the first war shattered any illusions he had. _Vater_ , despite seeing the horrors of that war, despite being gravely injured by that war, clung to them still. But not Wilhelm. I remember," Wolfgang said after a while, "when he came home on leave for the first time. It was near the end of 1915. I was fifteen, Franz was thirteen, and Wilhelm was twenty, a lieutenant. Franz and I were thrilled at having him home. We wanted to hear all about the glorious war, as it was called by the government propaganda — the battles, the excitement, the thrill of danger." A sober smile. "All he wanted to do was forget the horror of it. He withdrew even more during that visit. Only baby Therese seemed able to get through to him. We did not see him again until after he had been released from the hospital, right before he joined the Luftwaffe. There was no trace of the boy left in him. Even _Vater_ saw that. Yet there was a strange contentment about him. As if he had come to terms with his life, accepting it for what it was. He was twenty-two going on fifty. Sometimes, I think he was born fifty years old."

Hogan smiled faintly. "I know what you mean."

"After the war, after the armistice, when Germany was forbidden an air force, he went back to the Army. _Vater_ died a couple of years later and Wilhelm slowly rose through the ranks. The rest you already know."

"Not really," Hogan said. "Most of what he told me in the past have been half-truths. I saw very little of the man inside."

A shaky sigh from Wolfgang. "I am his brother and even I have rarely seen who he is inside. Only Therese ever came close. But he was the oldest and away from home during the time that Franz and I might have become closer to him. We love him, we always have, but we have rarely been allowed to see into his soul. And lately, the stories . . . " he finished lamely.

"You believed them?"

A miserable nod. "We denied it, but deep inside we believed many of them. We excused him because we knew why he was in the military and because we loved him. We thought it was his way of rebelling against a life he did not enjoy. None of us, except _Vater_ , expected much from him in the military. But then the stories began to deal with him as a man, his vanity, his supposed foolishness. Those we did not want to believe. We could not believe them!" Wolfgang's voice was anguished. "But we did," his voice dropped to a whisper. "We tried to keep them from Mama and Therese. Mama, I think we succeeded. Therese, I know she heard them. And ignored them." A smile through threatening tears. "She always believed in him, no matter what. We should have as well."

"He played his part too well."

"He has always played a part," Wolfgang said. "While _Vater_ was alive, he became the man _Vater_ expected him to be. But then _Vater_ died. Wilhelm was only twenty-five but he was the head of the family. I think, before _Vater_ 's death, he was thinking of resigning from the Wehrmacht, regardless of what _Vater_ wanted. But _Vater_ 's death changed all that. I was at the University; Franz was hoping to go as well. Wilhelm decided everything for us. I was to stay at the University. Franz would work in the store until I graduated; then he would go to the University. Wilhelm sent home much of his pay every month, helping us. To his detriment. He was an officer and there were social obligations that came with the position. He had never been a very sociable man even before that, but having such few funds made things more difficult for him. He withdrew even further from people. As for his career, to be charitable it was barely adequate for his rank. We all knew that and accepted it."

Wolfgang fell silent for a long while. Finally, he whispered, "And now, to learn that he is the Stage." A ragged breath. "If I did not see it with my own eyes, I do not think I would have believed it. The Stage is . . . " He shook his head.

"The Stage," Hogan said quietly, "is an ordinary man who managed in an insane time to reach inside himself and become extraordinary. No more and no less."

Wolfgang nodded. "I suppose you have known for some time."

A thin smile. "I've known only since January."

Wolfgang looked at him in astonishment. "But — "

"I have known him for over three years," Hogan said softly. "Lived with him in closer contact than any other person. And I didn't realize who he was."

Wolfgang looked bewildered. "I assumed he told you."

Hogan shook his head. "For years, I was too much of a jerk for him to trust me with his secret."

"I do not understand."

"All I saw was the uniform," Hogan said. "I refused to see the man inside and it was easier to ridicule and insult him. It was a long time before I stopped lying to myself, stopped lying to him."

"But you did."

Hogan nodded.

"Before you learned who he was," Wolfgang guessed.

Hogan nodded.

"I am glad." Wolfgang's voice was tight with emotion. "I am glad you were able to care for him despite his masquerade. Few people care about him. Few have been allowed to care about him. And even fewer has he allowed to see the real Wilhelm Klink."

"I know," Hogan said. "I'm glad he's let me see him." A faint smile. "Though I admit, it did take some arguing."

Wolfgang managed to smile. "He has always been a very stubborn man, Papa Bear." The smile faded as he whispered, "And I fear for him. So very much." He shuddered.

A hand on Wolfgang's shoulder. "So do I. Very much."

Wolfgang nodded and turned away from Hogan, a tear sliding down his face.

Hogan left Wolfgang to his grief and walked over to his men; Richard and Cleopatra had left during his talk with Wolfgang.

"How's he doing, Colonel?" Baker asked softly.

Hogan shrugged.

"Colonel," Hogan turned to Kinch, "we've been listening to the others and thinking . . . Colonel, we're like a bunch of extras here. We don't _belong_ here. I mean, look at them."

Hogan glanced around. More than half of the people who had heard the plans had already left, and groups had formed among the people still in the room; Hogan and his men were almost studiously ignored.

"They didn't give us much of a job, did they, Colonel?" Newkirk was saying. "Just told us to stick with the main group and start shooting when we got to the SS building. And the raid isn't for another twenty hours! What are we supposed to do until then?"

"We might as well have stayed home," LeBeau grumbled.

"We are the newcomers here," Baker said reasonably.

"We're the outsiders," Newkirk retorted. "They don't need us; they don't even know what we can do."

"I bet we could leave right now, and they wouldn't even know we were gone," Carter said in a doleful voice.

Hogan looked around one more time. "You know what, Carter. You're right. Let's get out of here."

Hogan and his men started for the door that led to the rest of the basement.

Ludwig spotted them and went over. "Still tired?" Ludwig asked with a smile.

Hogan nodded.

"Some people have already gone to get some sleep or rest."

"Only some? Hogan asked. He looked around; there weren't that many people still around. "Where did everyone else go?"

Ludwig smiled thinly. "Most of the local people have jobs in the factories and other places. They will be missed if they do not appear."

Wolfgang, still pale, walked over to them. "I must leave," he told Ludwig.

Ludwig nodded. "Be careful, my friend." He walked away.

Hogan looked at Wolfgang. "Are you going home?"

Wolfgang shook his head. "I work in a nearby factory. I will be back later to rest and prepare for the raid." His voice cracked a little on the last word.

"He will be all right," Hogan said, putting conviction into his voice.

"Will he? I know what the SS will do to him when he is caught." A shaky breath. "I have seen others . . ."

"He will be all right," Hogan repeated firmly.

Wolfgang nodded, and left the room.

"He does not believe you, _mon Colonel_ ," LeBeau said.

"I don't believe me either. Let's get the hell out of here."

"You've got a plan," Newkirk nearly crowed. "I knew it!"

"Right now, the only plan I have," Hogan said loudly so that others could hear, "is getting some more sleep."

Hogan and his men left as Richard walked back into the room. None of them noticed the searching look on Richard's face as he saw them go.

...

Hogan and his men were back in the dimly lit hallway that was part of the basement of the massive house above them. The hall went to the left and the right. Opposite them was a heavy wooden door with a keyed lock.

"Wine cellar," LeBeau murmured.

Newkirk grinned. "Trust a Frenchman to find the wine."

"Yeah, but that's where the weapons are," Baker said quietly.

"Let's go," Hogan said softly.

But before they could take a step toward the cellars, the elderly man came hurrying down the hall.

Hogan stopped him before he opened the door. " _Was ist los_?"

The servant gulped noisily. "The SS. They caught someone infiltrating the annex."

Shaken, Hogan let him go. The man entered the stone room, crying his news to Richard and those still there.

...

The man in the mask was sweating from the heat in the cramped ventilation shaft. He had been here maybe a couple of hours, maybe more, and he was setting yet another device. So far, they had not been able to find him, though they knew full well he was here.

A noise in the shaft behind him. A glance back and he laid the activated device in a corner. Then he moved forward as quickly as he could on his hands and knees.

There, a grate. He kicked at it and it clattered to the hallway floor. He jumped down, landing silently, his knees bent. He jerked upright. Someone, more than one, was running toward him.

He sprinted down the hallway, away from the clamoring boots. They were closing in on him. He found himself in a maze of corridors and they knew where he was. Then a window where one had no business being, and next to it a door. An open door. He went through it and found himself in a small inner courtyard that was open to the sky. There, high above him, was a window.

He dropped his pack, grabbing the grappling hook and rope. He swung the hook. It caught on the windowsill. Leaving the pack, he caught hold of the rope and started to climb.

When he was more than halfway up, soldiers emerged into the courtyard. Weapons were raised. Sweat broke from every pore. There was no way they could miss if they opened fire. He was gambling that they wanted him alive.

The Sturmbannführer(6) below him smiled. "Shoot the rope!" he ordered.

A machine gun burst over his head; he flinched from the spray of concrete. The rope split. He fell the five or six meters and landed, dazed. He was instantly surrounded and grabbed by men, some reaching for the mask.

" _Nein_!" ordered the Sturmbannführer. "Bring him!"

" _Jawohl_ , Sturmbannführer Haas!"

He was pulled, pushed, prodded by the men, none too gently. Back into the building, down yet another corridor, and down several flights of stairs into the depths of the building. He memorized the path as best as he could, noting the guards, the passages, the presumably locked doors. Finally, he was thrust into a cell and released.

Straightening himself, he looked around and stiffened. There on an all too familiar contraption hung Karl Weiss, alias Hamlet. His friend looked drained, gaunt from pain, and stunned to see the masked man.

Haas smiled. "We brought you a visitor, Herr Hamlet. Perhaps you know each other."

He could see Weiss trying to deny what he saw, praying that it really wasn't him.

The mask was pulled off.

There was no mistaking the recognition that crossed Weiss's face and the despairing anguish. The moment he had been dreading all this time had arrived; the Stage was once again in SS hands.

Haas laughed. "I see you know each other. This should be most interesting." He turned to the once masked man. "Most interesting. Continue the treatment."

" _Nein_ ," the Stage said softly.

Haas looked at him in surprise.

"We both know what you want, Herr Sturmbannführer," the Stage continued. "Release him or I promise you that you will get nothing from me. Not one word."

Haas smiled though his eyes did not. "You cannot be serious."

"Quite serious, Herr Sturmbannführer," the Stage said in a toneless voice. "Torture him, and I will fight you every inch of the way. Force you to hit me, render me unconscious, perhaps even kill me." His eyes met the SS man's. "You may be able to break me in time," he continued in that even voice. "But never as long as he is on that thing."

Their eyes clung, a battle of wills.

Haas dropped his eyes first. Then he smiled; he would enjoy this. "Take that _Hund_ off the rack. Back to his cell."

The Stage watched as the order was carried out. Intent on Weiss, he didn't see the blow coming. He hit the wall with his shoulder, sliding down it, the side of his lip bleeding.

Weiss's shocked, pained eyes met his as they dragged him from the room. The Stage tried to put as much reassurance into his gaze as possible. The problem was, he didn't feel all that reassured himself. Right now, his brilliant idea felt less than inspired. It felt . . .

He was pulled to his feet.

"Remove the shirt," Haas ordered.

He pulled the zipper down himself, his hand almost trembling. The black sweater was pulled from his back and dropped.

Another order, "To his knees,"

A kick against the backs of his knees and he fell, his arms held outstretched by two soldiers. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another soldier approaching, holding something in his hands. Mouth very dry, he watched it unfurl, and he waited for the blow.

The whip snapped against his bare back. He nearly cried out; his back was still healing, still too tender.

Another snap of the whip. He shook under the force of the blow, sweat on his brow. The third lash drew blood, a thin line across his back. Another line joined it. Then another.

The blows continued.

A cry was forced from him finally. Then another. Somehow, he swallowed the next cry.

He was drenched with sweat, his back sticky with his blood. His arms ached almost unbearably as they took the weight of his limp body as he was held.

Unexpectedly, they released him. He crumpled to the dirty floor, gasping.

Haas crouched beside him. "That was just the beginning, Stage. Unless you cooperate. Think very carefully. That machine will cause excruciating pain without any physical damage. It is capable of killing, but only after a very, very long time. And I promise you that you will break long before it kills you. Save yourself a great deal of pain and tell us what we want to know." Haas stood. "We will be back, Stage. Soon enough." He left the Stage lying on the floor.

The Stage stayed where he was, harboring his strength. _I am too old for this_. _And too tired_. A shiver from the sweat and blood.

After a while, he sat up and moving with pain-filled slowness, he retrieved his sweater. Grimacing, he pulled it on, feeling the thick fabric absorb the blood and sticking to his back.

Awkwardly, he leaned against the wall with a shoulder, taking care not to have it touch his back.

He hadn't expected the whipping. A beating, yes, but not the whip. He hoped he wasn't bleeding too badly; it might impair his mobility later. He glanced at the rack. Of course, once they put him on that thing, he wouldn't feel too mobile anyway.

A shiver. He didn't want to think about that yet. He knew he wasn't anywhere near as fearless as others made him out to be. He did what he had to do. That's all. Sometimes, it caused him pain. More so lately. But for years, he had been very lucky. A sigh. It had finally caught up with him. He knew it had to; he couldn't have kept it up forever.

A glance around the cell. He spotted the slop bucket and crawled to it. After using it, he took a drink of water from a none too clean jug. Then he returned to the wall and waited.

All too soon, they came back, Haas and two guards. "Well, Stage?"

He stayed silent.

They pulled him to his feet and shoved him toward the rack. Wincing, he fell into it. Heedless of his back, they pushed him on it. He gasped as they secured his hands above his head and his legs to the bottom of the rack.

Haas went to the console controlling the voltage. "Last chance, Stage."

He remained silent.

Haas smiled. "As you wish."

A hum of power, a tingling over his body. _Oh, God . . ._

The hum increased.

He was shaking now. Shaking from fear, anticipating what would happen. He was remembering as well. Remembering the past — every slash of pain, every scream. His memories competed with reality. He wasn't sure what was real or not.

His fear was; he could taste it. He had never been this frightened before.

He forced it down. _They're coming. Just remember that. It won't be long. They're coming._

The current surged.

He screamed.

* * *

Endnotes

1 Charles B. MacDonald: _The Last Offensive_

2 Volkssturm: civilians from teenagers to the elderly and disabled pressed into service to defend a city or town

3 John Toland: _The Last 100 Days_

4 Major General

5 Lord Mayor, above Bürgermeister

6 SS major


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

March 28, 1945

"Well, that's it then," Newkirk said, a glum look on his face.

"What do we do now, Colonel?" Carter asked, worry creasing his face. "Follow through on the plans they made?"

"Right now," Hogan said grimly, "Newkirk, open that damned door!"

Newkirk managed a shaky smile. "Right you are, sir."

With the others looking out for people walking the hall, it took Newkirk a little longer, or rather a lot longer than Hogan had anticipated. That lock may have looked old, but it was nearly impenetrable. Nearly, but not quite.

Newkirk grinned as he pulled the door open. "After you, sir."

"Glad to see that Alfie's lessons were useful(1)," Hogan said as he went through the door.

With the door closed, it was pitch black inside.

"Mind the stairs!" Hogan said as he switched on his flashlight. The light panned the steep stone rail-less stairs. Behind him, the others also switched on their flashlights.

They walked down the stairs, hugging the rough stone wall on their left for safety. They were in a large cold room that seemed to run under the hall and rooms above them. The searching flashlights illuminated tall racks of bottles, presumably filled with wines and spirits, and several huge kegs of beer. At the bottom, they fanned out to look around.

"So this is how the other half lives," Newkirk said in an envious tone, his light playing over the bottles.

"And this is what we're really after," Baker ahead of them said. His light had found boxes on the other side of the cellar. Boxes and crates filled with straw, all of them loaded with pistols, grenades, submachine guns, rifles, and boxes upon boxes of ammunition for the weapons — more than enough for an outright assault on not just the SS annex. To the left of the crates, piled against the wall were more boxes filled with explosives, timers, detonators and the like.

"Oh, boy," Carter exclaimed, and began loading his pockets with his newfound treasure.

"Colonel!" Kinch called. He tossed Hogan a small knapsack that he had found on top of a box.

Baker found other knapsacks piled next to the boxes. He grabbed enough for each of them and handed them out to the others. They began filling the bags with ammunition and grenades. Carter's sack was already bulging with the explosive materials he was pawing through with covetous eyes.

Hogan smiled faintly at their enthusiasm and went back to the weapons. He picked up a Luger, enjoying the feel of the pistol. The others joined him, picking up pistols and submachine guns from the crates. Kinch had a bazooka as well.

Hogan listened to their excited chatter for a minute before calling a halt. "Okay, that's enough."

The smiles and the chatter reluctantly subsided.

"Sorry, _mon Colonel_ ," LeBeau said. "We got carried away."

A thin smile. "So did I."

"What do we do now, Colonel?" Baker asked.

"Now we come up with our own plans," Hogan said. "We provide some diversions of our own to take the pressure off the Stage. We do what we've always done, get everyone so confused that they don't know what's going on. But first, we need to get out of here."

"They were going to take us into the city proper by farm trucks," Kinch said.

"We don't need a truck," LeBeau said. "Just a big car."

"Yeah, a place this fancy must have some cars around," Newkirk said.

"So, we need to find the garage or shed where they keep the cars," Baker said.

"Right," Hogan said. "Let's go."

They turned toward the entrance, carrying their newfound booty. Their lights crisscrossed the stone floor, the crates of weapons, the kegs of beer, and the shelves full of bottles.

LeBeau stopped beside one of the racks and picked up one of the old bottles. Dom Pérignon 1921. LeBeau gasped as he held one of the greatest champagnes ever created. He gingerly replaced the priceless bottle with an emotion akin to reverence. And he noticed that wasn't the only outstanding vintage on the racks; there was a Dom Pérignon 1928 and a 1929. And next to them were other wines nearly as superb. He had never before even seen a bottle of these extraordinary vintages.

"What do you think, Louis?" Kinch asked with a small smile.

"This cellar is _magnifique_! If I could have a place with even one of these wines, I would feel like the richest man in the world." He shook his head.

"Maybe we can 'borrow' one for later," Newkirk suggested with a grin.

"No," LeBeau said with a serious expression on his face. "These wines need the proper setting — the most beautiful surroundings, the best china and silver, the most fragile crystal, exquisite food, and people who would appreciate them."

"Louis, this is just wine," Newkirk said.

"Just wine? And your Crown Jewels are just pretty rocks! Just wine!"

"Quiet!" Hogan ordered. "This isn't a picnic!"

The overhead lights came on.

"I am glad you realize that, Papa Bear," Richard growled from the stairs.

Hogan blinked in the sudden light and looked up. Richard stood halfway down the stairs. Behind him armed with submachine guns were half a dozen grim-faced men, some in SS uniforms. And the submachine guns were aimed at them.

Hogan's men started convulsively, their weapons starting to move up.

"Down!" Hogan shouted; he suddenly remembered the Stage's earlier warning. "Put them down!"

"Very wise, Papa Bear," Richard said. He walked down the stairs. "May I ask what you think you are doing?"

"We are leaving," Hogan said flatly.

"Oh? How?"

"You don't need to know."

"In other words, you don't know."

Hogan stared at him; there was barely concealed contempt in Richard's voice.

"Do you think this is a small prison camp area with third-rate soldiers and a town filled with Resistance people where you can walk around and do what you want with impunity?" Richard's lips curled at the look on Hogan's face. " _Ja_ , I know who you are, Papa Bear. And where you come from." A humorless smile touched his lips. "Your pride is wounded; does the truth hurt?" The smile vanished. "Put the weapons and everything else you have taken down. Now!"

Hogan kept his eyes on Richard. He could feel his men's anger behind him, and hear a beginning rumble of dissent. "Do it," he ordered.

"But, Colonel . . . !" Newkirk began.

"That's an order!" Hogan's eyes never moved from Richard's brutal face. Richard was one dangerous son of a bitch. One, Hogan was certain, who wouldn't hesitate to order the men to kill them.

Behind him, Hogan's men put their weapons and knapsacks on the ground.

"Colonel," Carter began in a timid voice.

"Everything, Carter."

Carter even more reluctantly emptied his pockets of the goodies he had taken.

"Okay, we did what you asked," Hogan said. Behind the guards on the steps, he saw Cleopatra, her face white, staring down at him. "Now what?"

Richard stepped down to the cellar floor. "Since you seem fascinated by the cellar, you may see more of it." He gestured to Hogan's right.

Hogan glanced over; there was a sturdy wooden door in the wall. "You're going to lock us up." Hogan looked up to the top of the stairs, his eyes on Cleopatra.

"That is what is done normally with thieves."

"We are not thieves," Hogan said. "We only want to help the Stage."

"By stealing our weapons, stealing a car and undermining all of our plans!" Richard's fury broke.

"No! By — "

"Enough! All of you, through that door now!"

"Colonel," Kinch began softly.

"Do it."

"Very wise," Richard said in a mocking voice.

Hogan's men, herded by the SS men, went over to the door. Richard unlocked it and gestured.

Hogan's men stared into the darkness.

"It's, it's pitch black inside," Carter said with a stammer.

"There is a lantern and you have flashlights," Richard said with unconcern.

"All heart, ain't you?" Newkirk said heatedly as he walked inside.

Richard smiled coldly. "I normally kill those who try to steal from me." He watched the men go in. He turned to Hogan. "Your turn."

"I would like to talk to the lady."

"I said — "

"This is her home, not yours!" Hogan snapped. " _Bitte, meine Dame_."

Cleopatra looked down at him for a long moment that turned into a full minute. Finally, she inclined her head. "Come with me." She turned to leave.

"My men — "

"They will not be harmed."

Cleopatra walked through the door, leaving Hogan staring after her. Then he turned to the door Richard was closing. "Wait. _Bitte_."

Richard looked at him for a moment and with a humorless smile, gestured toward the men.

Hogan walked over and looked inside. Kinch was lighting the second lantern that was hanging on the far wall. The others sat, their expressions glum, on the two bunks that lined each side of the small room.

Hogan looked at his men, apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry. This is my fault."

"No, it's — " Kinch began.

A faint rueful smile. "Yes, it is, Kinch. I'm so used to operating by the seat of my pants that I forget that the world tends to play by other rules. And that it's a big, big world. I'm going to try to make it right for all of us. Okay?"

Slowly, the men nodded.

"I'll see you soon."

Richard closed the door; Hogan wasn't surprised to hear him order one of the men to stand guard. Hogan walked cautiously up the stairs, acutely aware of Richard's eyes on his back.

To Hogan's surprise, Cleopatra didn't take him back to the stone room. She didn't take him to any of the rooms along the passage either. Instead, she walked to a staircase; Hogan followed her up the stairs to a thick wooden door. Cleopatra knocked in a code sequence and the door opened. Guarding the door was a huge man with a horrible scar running from the top of his bare scalp down the right side of his face to his chin. Cleopatra used sign language with the man, who stepped back and let Hogan follow his mistress.

The small hall leading to the stairs went in two directions. To the left, Hogan caught a glimpse of a large kitchen. Cleopatra went right into a spacious wood-paneled dining room. The white lace-covered highly polished wooden table had a dozen comfortable chairs around it. More matching chairs stood against the walls. Cleopatra continued into an even larger drawing room that had a plush rose carpet and many white well-cushioned sofas and chairs. Museum quality paintings, mainly landscapes, were on the ivory walls. Cleopatra continued through a small hall and ended up in an immense book-lined room that took up the entire width of the house. A massive mahogany desk dominated the space in front of one of the two bow-shaped windows.

Seeming to ignore Hogan, Cleopatra sat on the plush leather chair behind the desk, framed by pale blue silk drapes and midnight blue blackout curtains. Then she looked up at him solemnly as he closed the door.

Hogan looked around with interest; he had never been in a house as large as this one. Wealth, old wealth was evident by the hundreds of leather-bound books that populated the tall bookshelves, the comfortable chairs and sofas that broke up the immense floor space, and even the small porcelain knickknacks that were scattered around the various tables. His eyes went back to the woman seated behind the desk. The house fitted her like a glove. He knew little about women's clothes, but hers were elegant — an expertly tailored mauve sweater and a dark brown skirt. He would have bet his old bomber that those gems in the clips holding her hair up were diamonds and the stones in the floral brooch on her shoulder were rubies and emeralds. A beautiful woman with a serene face.

Well, he knew how to handle beautiful women.

"A handsome house," Hogan said with his most appealing smile. "Did you decorate it?"

An elegant brow lifted. "You asked to talk to me about the house?"

Hogan smiled again. "I don't get to see places like this every day. It's nice to see something this gorgeous for a change."

She looked at him steadily. "I suppose you will now tell me that I am beautiful."

"You are."

"And I have excellent taste."

"You do."

"And now you will flatter and fawn over me, and try to win me over with your charming smile and pretty words."

"I, uh." This wasn't going well.

"And talk me into letting you and your men go wherever it is you wish to go with all the weapons you can carry."

"It's not going to work, is it?"

Cleopatra stood, an average-sized woman yet suddenly seeming much larger. She stared coldly into his eyes. "I am not a twenty-year-old child flattered by a handsome man who says pretty things to me. I am a general in the Stage's army, and I have been one for more than twice as many years as you have been a prisoner, Colonel Robert Hogan. And I expect you to remember that!" She walked around the desk. "So, if that is all you have to say, it is time for you to rejoin your men."

Hogan managed to look contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to — "

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Enough! What do you want, Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan took a deep breath to control his voice. "I want to get him out of there now. Not in eighteen hours or twenty or whatever. Now!"

"And we have already dealt with that issue," Cleopatra said in an implacable voice. "As Richard so succinctly told you, this is not a small prison town with third-rate guards and townspeople willing to help you. This is a city with over one million people who have lived through more bombings than you have. We have made our plans and we will follow them! We have done this before, Colonel. We know the situation here far better than someone who just came along for a ride with the great Stage!"

"Who, what? Look, lady whatever your name is, you know what they're doing to him! Do you know what happened to him two weeks ago? He's barely recovered from that and now he's deliberately walked into an SS torture chamber! You may think he's some sort of invincible god, but he's not! He may not survive this time!" He looked coldly at her. "Or do you even care?"

"How dare you?!"

"How dare I? Look, I care about the man! Not that superhero that everyone thinks he is. I get the feeling that none of you gives a damn about him. That — " He stopped at the look on her face. "You do care, don't you?"

"Of course, I care," she whispered. "I have known him for twenty-five years! He is far more than my commander."

"And you're still willing to let them torture him, maybe kill him! How?!"

"Because this is war! Tell me, Colonel Hogan, who have you lost in this war? I lost my beloved husband and my son, my only child, in this fight against the monsters who rule Germany! And every day, I must placate and pretend to enjoy the company of those who would keep those monsters in power.

"And Richard . . . _Mein Gott_ , Richard. He was once a prosperous landowner in eastern Prussia, married to a beautiful woman, with four children that he loved with every fiber of his being. Then the SS marched through on the way to Russia and discovered that his wife was a Roma, a despised Gypsy. While he was away, most of his loyal servants were murdered, and his wife and precious 12-year-old daughter were raped and then burned alive in their own home. His younger son was slaughtered trying to help them, and his twin baby boys were thrown into the same fire that killed his wife and daughter."

Hogan, white from shock, caught her arms as Cleopatra swayed from the horror of it.

"Richard went mad, turning into a merciless and very efficient killer. The Stage found him after Richard was nearly killed and saved his life, and his soul. Richard and I are not the only ones. Nearly every man and woman on this estate has lost someone they loved to this war. Some of them would hate you, as your bombers killed their friends or family." She looked at him, fury in her eyes. " So, do not parade your grief, your anger, here, Papa Bear! We are well acquainted with both!"

Cleopatra broke away from Hogan and turned to the window.

After a shaken moment, Hogan went to stand beside her. There were tears on her cheeks as she watched an elderly gardener working among the flowerbeds.

"I'm sorry," Hogan whispered.

"So am I, Colonel Hogan. So am I."

...

Unconscious, he was pulled from the rack and dumped along the wall. Haas smiled; the session had gone well. The invincible Stage was not so invincible after all. He had screamed as had other victims of the rack. Though, Haas had to admit grudgingly, his tolerance of the pain was the highest Haas had ever seen. The Stage would not break quickly. But in the end he would, just like all the others. Especially when the drugs were introduced. But that would happen only after the pain had worn him down sufficiently.

Haas and his men left; the door to the cell clanged shut behind them.

After a while, the man on the floor stirred. His head lifted and sank down again almost immediately. His aching head rested on his arms as he stayed still, conserving the remains of his strength.

Strength? He almost laughed. He had precious little at the moment. This Sturmbannführer was not as patient as Hochstetter had been. The level of pain was as high as he could tolerate without losing consciousness for most of the time he had spent on that thing. His throat was parched and ached from the screams that had been torn from him almost incessantly.

His own mind was making it harder for him — continually remembering what had happened in the past, magnifying the pain he was feeling now. Fear of what had happened and what had almost happened preyed upon his mind, wearing him down.

He found himself having to fight two battles — the immediate one imposed by Haas and a more insidious one created by his own mind and fear. He could hope for occasional respites from the torture, but he could not escape his own mind. The only hope he had now was that a rescue was planned. But when? He knew it would not be in the daytime. So he had at least twelve more hours in this hell.

 _And if something went wrong?_

 _Stop it. Don't think about that. Don't think at all._

He let the fatigue that he had been fighting take over. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Endnotes

1 Alfie (Alfred) Burke, the safecracker in "The Safecracker Suite"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

March 28, 1945

The sun was trying to peek through the haze when Robert Hogan walked over to a tray sitting on a sideboard. He lifted the crystal decanter on the tray and sniffed. Brandy. Very expensive and very good, he'd be willing to bet. He poured some of the brandy into one of the exquisite snifters on the tray. He took the snifter over to Cleopatra. Her tears had stopped, but she was still pale.

" _Meine Dame_." Hogan handed her the snifter.

" _Danke schön_ ," she whispered and took a sip of the brandy. She cradled the snifter in her hands and glanced at him. "You may have a drink if you wish."

"I don't want to impose," Hogan said with rare humility.

A faint smile touched her lips. "I believe it is far too late for you to be modest, Colonel."

Hogan, looking chagrined, went back to the brandy and poured himself a larger drink. He took a sip, half wanting to smack his lips like a boy at the taste of the brandy. He settled for, "This isn't bad at all."

There was genuine humor in her small smile. "Considering the cost, it should not be." She took another sip of her brandy.

Hogan sat on the corner of the desk. "Do we have a truce?"

"That depends entirely on you, Colonel. Do you still intend on playing, what do you Amis call it, playing 'cowboy' by yourself?"

A rueful smile. "I think you've pretty much proved that we couldn't get away with it."

"No, you would not, Colonel." Cleopatra took another sip of her drink.

"Colonel. Look, you know who I am. Can I, may I, ask your real name? You really don't look like a Cleopatra, at least not like the Cleopatra in that old Claudette Colbert movie." He caught her smile. "So, how did you get that name?"

"The name, Colonel, is a private joke between two old friends." The sadness was back on her face. To Hogan's surprise, she drained the rest of her brandy. "My name, my name is Anna."

"Thank you for telling me. And I know," he said as she opened her lips, "not to be used when anyone else is around."

She smiled faintly.

Hogan took another drink. "Look, I'm sorry we made such a mess of things. But I still want to do something. I _NEED_ to do something to spare him as much as I can. And to feel that my men and I are doing something useful. Yeah, we're used to doing things by ourselves and yeah, I'm used to being the one in charge. Right now, I feel, we feel that we aren't being useful. You don't know what we can do if we're allowed to. Nobody asked us what we can do."

"I do have some idea what you are capable of, Colonel. Wilhelm, on the rare times he was able to visit, would tell me stories of your escapades." A faint smile. "Some of them are rather unbelievable."

"Then you know my somewhat crazy ideas can work."

" _Ja_. So, Colonel Hogan, what crazy idea do you have?"

Hogan had the grace to look embarrassed. "The truth is I was more concerned with getting away from here. I was planning on figuring it out after we got to the city."

A loud sigh as she sat behind the desk. "Colonel," she began.

Hogan held up his hand. "I know. Not the brightest plan. Look." He stood up and began pacing the room. "Your plans are good, better than good."

" _Danke_ ," she said, irony oozing from her voice.

A faint smile. "I'm thinking of something more low-key. Something to get the SS away from the Stage, to give him a break at least for a few hours. Maybe blow up the buildings next door."

"We need the buildings next door," she said dryly. "To carry out the rescue."

"Okay, then down the street." And held up his hand as she began to object. "I know, we need the street clear until we get away."

"And then we will blow it up."

"How about some major sabotage? One of those factories. That always attracted the SS at home."

Anna sighed. "Colonel, between the Allied bombings and _our_ sabotage, the SS does not care anymore."

"Okay." Hogan plopped into a chair and thought a moment. "When you were telling us the plans, you didn't say anything about the personnel at the SS."

A sudden attentiveness on her face. "I apologize. We know them, but I had not acknowledged that you do not."

"Well?"

"Hamlet, that is Oberführer(1) Karl Weiss, was captured or rather betrayed by a new contact. To save his own SS men, he allowed himself to be taken by them."

"What? His men turned him in?"

" _Ja_ , to protect his units." A twisted smile. "They were highly praised for their actions. Hamlet's arrest was immediately reported to Brigadeführer(2) Walter Schellenberg in Berlin. Schellenberg had absorbed Abwehr into his own SS intelligence organization and he personally arrested Admiral Canaris in 1944. But he is a man playing his own dangerous game. He and Himmler are trying to negotiate their own truce using the Swedish.(3)"

"You're kidding!"

" _Nein_. Negotiations, such as they are, have been going on for weeks." A sigh. "Unfortunately, his own plans have not inspired Schellenberg to turn a blind eye to others hoping to end this war. He sent Sturmbannführer Ulrich Haas to interrogate Hamlet. We know Haas was wounded after serving years on the Eastern Front and is one of the lucky few to return to Germany."

"Is Haas out to make a name for himself?"

"I beg your pardon, I do not . . . Oh. If I understand your meaning, _Ja_ , he is interested in promoting himself."

"Maybe we can use that," Hogan said. There was a faint glimmer of an idea in the back of his brain.

"He has Hamlet and the Stage, both infamous Resistance leaders. Breaking them would enhance his reputation greatly."

"Yeah. Who's his boss?"

"Schellenberg."

"I mean here."

"He has none. The local head of the SS was told that Haas is the only one to interrogate Hamlet."

"I bet that made him mad."

A faint smile. "Very. He has decided he has more important things to do than stay here and watch someone else get the glory. But . . . "

That glimmer became a full-blown plan, a really, really crazy one. "What if we give Haas another chance to make a name for himself?"

Cleopatra looked at him. "What do you propose?"

"I don't know where the Americans are. Do you know which is the nearest American army?"

"The situation is very fluid. I believe it is General Hodges' First Army, or possibly General Patton's Third Army. But both are still some distance away."

"That's even better," Hogan said firmly.

"What are you thinking, Colonel Hogan?"

"What if we give Haas another chance for glory?"

Cleopatra looked at him with interest.

"How about an American deserter?"

"You are the deserter."

"Yeah. That will . . ." Cleopatra began to smile. "What's so funny?"

"Colonel Hogan, with all due respect, the Stage is far more important than an American deserter."

"Even one with the plans for an imminent American attack on Leipzig?"

"Even one with . . . " A peculiar look appeared on her face.

Hogan found himself holding his breath as an odd mix of expressions flitted over Anna's face — thoughtfulness, awareness, then a sudden hope.

Anna stood. "Come with me," she ordered, and hurried from the room.

Hogan was nearly running as he rushed to keep up with her. Back through the drawing room, the dining room, into the hall. The giant man hurriedly opened the basement door for her; Hogan nearly slipped down the stairs as he rushed after her.

"Lady, what on earth?"

Cleopatra ignored him. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned left into the near darkness at the end of the basement hallway. There was a thick door, steel-plated this time, with a combination lock on it. The dial nearly flew in her hand as she turned to the correct numbers. The door clicked open and she stepped inside.

Hogan blinked as she turned on the lights and he closed the door behind him. A utilitarian wooden desk with equally utilitarian chairs faced him. Behind the desk and on both sides were wooden filing cabinets, which she ignored. Then Hogan spotted the safe just behind the desk. Cleopatra knelt and opened the safe. She took a package from it and stood, dropping the packet on the desk.

"I will be blunt, Colonel . . . Papa Bear," she amended with a small smile. "Haas would not care about any plans for an American attack. He is not afraid of the Americans. He is, however, terrified of the Soviets. And he would be extremely interested in any plans the Soviets have for Leipzig. Like these."

Hogan stared at the package. "You forged Soviet plans for an attack on Leipzig."

" _Nein_. The plans are genuine. They came into my possession several weeks ago from a Soviet general who hated and feared Stalin."

"You're kidding."

"Hardly." A smile. "However, the plans are no longer valid. Stalin has no intention of letting the Americans or anyone else take Berlin, so Leipzig will be spared their terror for a time. But Haas does not know that."

"Okay, I'll accept that. But how would I have gotten the plans?"

Cleopatra sat down behind the desk and indicated the chair in front. She pushed the package toward Hogan. "American planes in danger of running out of fuel have landed in Soviet occupied areas. While their pilots have been decently treated for the most part, they are not welcomed by the Soviets and are often prisoners for propaganda purposes. You could be one of those pilots, and you can use the real Soviet general as the source of the plans. You can say he was killed." She saw Hogan start. " _Nein_ , we helped him leave Germany. But no one knows that, so you may tell whatever story you wish. You found the plans. You did not like the Soviets, so when the general died — I will give you more information on him later — you stole a vehicle and were able to make your way here. You want to be out of the war, so you are willing to give the plans away to a high-ranking SS officer in exchange for a fake German identity or something similar. You should be able to think of something."

Hogan grinned. "Yeah, I should." He looked at the papers in his hand. "These are in Russian. I don't speak or read Russian"

"There is a German translation. Herr General was quite fluent in German and he kindly translated the plans. Haas does not speak or read Russian; nor does anyone else currently at the SS. Haas will want to find someone who does read Russian to verify that the plans are genuine, but it will take some time. And given the importance of such information, I think he will personally undertake that task. And, hopefully, he will leave the Stage in peace during that time."

Cleopatra stood and went to the filing cabinets. She pulled a thick file from one of them. "This has the information we have on current Soviet locations and possible routes for you to take to come here. Please look these over carefully. You need to be very convincing in your story." She handed Hogan the file and looked at him soberly. "Papa Bear, we know very little about Haas. We do not know what, as you would say, makes him tick. He has tortured Hamlet since his capture; he is torturing," a nearly imperceptible tremor, "the Stage. He has not shared his findings, if any, with anyone at SS headquarters. And he has not yet notified Berlin that he has the Stage. We suspect he will not do so for some time."

"That's good, isn't it? He wants it all, so he's not going to tell anyone about the American deserter either."

"Not at first. But," her tone became oddly gentle, "Haas may decide he does not want to bargain with you. He may take the plans and kill you outright. Have you thought of that?"

Hogan looked up at her, at the woman who had lost so much. He opened his mouth to say, "Of course, I have, lady," in a dismissive tone. And he shut his mouth. He dropped the files and the plans on the desk and stood, turning away from her.

Did he think of that? Truly think of that? He stared at the map of Germany on the board by the door. His eyes found Leipzig easily and Berlin and Munich and even the Hammelburg in southern Germany where a non-Luftwaffe POW camp was. Much, much bigger than his Stalag Luft 13 with only a few Americans. He'd heard a rumor that one of Patton's commanders had sent some tanks in an attempt to liberate the prisoners there.(4)

But his Stalag Luft 13 and his little village of Hammelburg northeast of Düsseldorf overlooking the Ruhr, they didn't even appear on the map. Not big enough, not important enough. Like his operation? Hogan shook his head irritably. Now, he was going to the opposite extreme. First, he thought they were the best Resistance unit in Germany. Well, they were good, but the best? Hardly. Hammelburg was a nothing little place with once important industries to be sure, at least important locally, but it didn't even rate a speck on a map of Germany. As even he had said, Papa Bear was a big fish in the little pond of Hammelburg, but they sure as heck weren't the biggest fish in Germany. They were great helping escapees and evaders who showed up in the vicinity. Even Edmondson said so, and it wasn't their fault that everyone didn't make it to safety. That responsibility lay elsewhere. But for years, he'd thought he was the best there was.

God, what gall! Yeah, they had some really important jobs and missions, but a lot of it was just being in the right place at the right time. He had gotten used to winning, despite some bad mistakes. So, for a long time, he'd thought he was unbeatable. It was deflating to discover that a major reason he'd gotten away with so much without any consequences was the fact that his back had been protected by the man he'd thought he was using.

Was that why he was here in this room? Was he still trying to prove that he was as good, as brave, as the Stage? Did he even seriously think that Haas may just kill him? An unexpected shudder shook him. And he remembered one particular incident, the one in Berlin with Major Hans Teppel AKA Robert Jared Morrison(5). Teppel had arranged a sniper hit on a man carrying a certain briefcase. The problem was, Hogan accidentally ended up carrying that briefcase. And he had panicked totally, almost mindlessly, when he realized he had become the sniper's target. It was sheer luck and bravado fueled by panic that inspired him to give the briefcase, seemingly at random, to one of the bad guys.

And now, he was thinking of setting himself up as a target deliberately. Which was what Teppel had done once, calmly talking to Hogan while aware that any second there would be a bullet coming at him from an arranged sniper hit.(6) Another shudder shook Hogan. And he remembered when he'd gotten shot just a few weeks ago.(7) That was bad enough, and it was accidental.

Did he have Teppel's courage? Or the Stage's? Or Hamlet's? Or even the courage of the woman looking at him with sober compassion?

Then he remembered what happened after they had rescued Klink from Hochstetter(8). He and his men had talked long into the night wondering if Klink would return to the camp after he had healed. And individually, each of them had to work through the realization that if they did return, if they made any mistakes at all, at best, they would be killed. At worst . . . well, they had seen the worst when they rescued Klink.

Hogan turned back to Cleopatra. "No," he said evenly. "I didn't think that Haas might just kill me rather than bargain with me. But it doesn't matter. The mission is to keep Haas away from the Stage for whatever amount of time I can"

Cleopatra nodded. "Then, Papa Bear, I accept your offer. I will send in some sandwiches and coffee while you study the plans and decide on your story."

"Good. If you'll release my men so I can go over the plans with them — "

She was shaking her head. " _Nein_ , Papa Bear. Your men will have no part in this operation."

"What?"

"I am sorry, but your men care far too much about you. It is very obvious that while they will gladly die for you, they would not let you walk into such a deliberate trap alone. Nor will they treat you with the viciousness for which the SS is famous. Also, the garrison here is small. While they do not all know each other personally, they at least recognize each other. So, your men will be looked upon with suspicion, jeopardizing not only themselves but you as well. And to be blunt, not one of them appears to fit the physical requirements of the SS men here in Leipzig."

"But we got away with it before," he began and stopped. "Got away with it in a small area with third-rate soldiers. Now look, Cleopatra, they weren't all third-rate soldiers!"

A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. " _Nein_ , they were not. But I repeat, they will have no part in this operation."

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"If you wish to go through with this, you do not have a choice."

"Are you going to keep them locked up?"

Her head shook. "You were correct, Papa Bear; we have ignored you and your men when we made those plans. I will remedy that. I have in mind several operations that will help our efforts here in Leipzig and will keep them from worrying unduly about you. When it is time to fully implement our rescue plans, they will be a part of it. I suspect that once they learn where you are, there will be no keeping them out of it!"

Hogan smiled in acknowledgement.

"One more point, and then I will leave you. As I have already noted, your men care more for you than any plans I may have for them. Is there a word or phrase that will show them that you have approved those plans?"

Hogan nodded and grinned. "Tell them the Snowman," he used the English word, "said to do whatever you say."

"The Snowman. I will remember." She started to open the door.

"Oh, I forgot, I'll need some dog tags and ID."

An elegant brow lifted. "Did you not bring dog tags and ID?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then, Papa Bear, your problem is solved. Colonel Robert Hogan will be the American deserter with the Russian plans."

She smiled and closed the door.

Hogan stared at door and sighed. _God, I really, really hope Haas doesn't notify anybody. I'd hate to try and explain this to Edmondson. Then again, she might be telling him all about it right now!_

Hogan shook his head and sat down. For this to work, he had a lot of planning of his own to do. Then he grabbed for the door and yanked it open.

"Hey!" he yelled at Cleopatra. "How am I going to get there?"

Cleopatra turned and raised a brow. "The same way other prisoners do. You will be a 'guest' of the SS."

She turned and walked away, leaving Hogan to stare at her back.

...

He was dozing fitfully when they grabbed him and pulled him off the ground. He stumbled into the rack as they thrust him toward it. Still numbed, they secured him to it. Then without warning, the pain hit. And he screamed.

* * *

Endnotes

1 There is no equivalent American rank; it's between colonel and brigadier general.

2 Brigadier General

3 John Toland: _The Last 100 Days_

4 The location of the fictional Stalag Luft 13 is a small town named Hammelburg (spelled Hamelburg in a couple of episodes) near Dusseldorf in North Central Germany, as has been mentioned in numerous episodes as well as the notes on scripts of HH. There were three real German Stalag 13s for POWs, none of them Luftwaffe camps. One of the real camps was in a real city named Hammelburg in southern Germany. That camp held some 4000 mainly Serbian soldiers, not airmen, and had no Americans until January 1945 when a few hundred Americans arrived from other camps. In March 1945 (from the 24th on), the real camp was the location of a failed attempt by General Patton to rescue his son-in-law John Waters who had been taken prisoner years before in North Africa. Patton went behind Eisenhower and Bradley's backs to send a small, ill-equipped force of roughly 300 men some 80 miles behind enemy lines to liberate Waters. Nine men were killed, most were taken prisoner, their tanks and equipment destroyed, and Waters was severely wounded. Patton called it one of his worst mistakes, but never admitted the real reason for the disastrous raid. The officers who did know kept it a secret until long after Patton's death. In an ironic twist of fate, the camp was liberated 4/6/45. Only 75 Americans, including Waters, were still there, the rest having been marched to other camps.

5 "A Bad Day in Berlin"

6 Mel Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_

7 _Act Four_

8 _Act Two_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

March 28, 1945

Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe and Sergeant Richard Baker sat on one of the cots, talking quietly. They, unlike the others, were reviewing the plans that Cleopatra and Richard had drawn up in the hope that they would be allowed to participate in the upcoming rescue. Corporal Louis LeBeau was staring glumly at the floor, occasionally glancing at the door that led to that wondrous wine cellar. Corporal Peter Newkirk was pacing angrily between the two cots, occasionally tripping over LeBeau's feet and earning a curse or two from his friend. And Sergeant Andrew Carter, the baby of the group, Carter was napping as he sat against the wall, dreaming of the goodies he'd been forced to give up.

Newkirk tripped yet again over LeBeau's feet. This time the diminutive Frenchman jumped up and began yelling loudly at him in French.

This time, Carter jerked awake, and Kinch said firmly, "Will you two stop it! Newkirk, sit down and calm down. You too, LeBeau. Before you get those guards in here."

"If they do come in," LeBeau muttered, "they'll be sorry."

"I think you'll be the one sorry," Baker said.

"They wouldn't dare," Newkirk began.

"The hell they wouldn't!" Kinch let a bit of anger into his voice. "You may not have noticed, but those guys would have shot us if Richard had ordered them to."

"But we're on the same side," Carter protested.

"Which means that they may not kill us," Kinch said. "They're SS, Andrew. Real SS."

"We've handled SS before," LeBeau said positively.

Baker shook his head. "Not like these guys." He looked at Kinch. "Are we finally in over our heads?"

"Bah!" from LeBeau. "We had SS in the camp all the time and we took care of them."

"And who was in the camp at the same time?" Kinch asked. "Who had control over the guards and where they were assigned? Who kept bragging that nobody had ever escaped from the camp and had us guarded by Schultz nearly every time we left the camp? Who constantly reminded everyone that we were Luftwaffe prisoners and that he was the one in charge? Who took us to town when we needed to be in town, volunteering us for jobs at the SS or Gestapo headquarters or any other place that we were interested in? Or just taking us to town whenever Colonel Hogan asked him to?"

"Kommandant Klink," Carter said.

"Who?" Kinch nudged.

LeBeau and Newkirk stared at him and then at each other.

"The Stage, the bloody Stage," Newkirk murmured, looking at his hands.

"Yeah, the Stage. The man who tacitly approved everything we ever did at the camp and made sure we didn't pay for it. And," Kinch gestured at the door, "those guys work for him."

"So do we," Carter said. "Sort of."

"There's no 'sort of', Andrew," Newkirk found himself admitting. "We do work for him."

"Which means, like it or not, we're stuck following Richard's and Cleopatra's orders too."

"Which means we'd better behave ourselves," Baker said. "The things we could get away with at camp, we can't get away with here."

"What a bloody mess!" Newkirk rubbed his face. "Now what do we do?"

"We wait," Kinch said. "Hopefully, Colonel Hogan will convince Cleopatra that we can do something besides sit in this cell."

His head suddenly lifted toward the door; it was opening.

The men stood as Cleopatra looked at them from the door. Her eyes swept them. They looked apprehensive, but not frightened. She nodded her head. _Gut_.

"I was told that you know who the Snowman is," she said in flawless British-accented English. "And would do whatever he says."

The five men looked at each other and then at Cleopatra.

"Yes, ma'am," Kinch answered in English.

"Good. Colonel Hogan will be unavailable, as he now has a task of his own to carry out." She stepped inside the cell. "So, I come in his name and the Snowman's to ask you if you are also willing to do your part in the Stage's army."

Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau looked at Kinch, their commander in Hogan's absence.

Kinch stepped toward the elegant woman and said, "Yes."

She smiled briefly. "Good." She gestured to one of the guards behind her. He brought a wooden chair into the room and left. Cleopatra sat and gestured to the others to sit as well.

When she spoke again, it was in German. "I have had a conversation with Papa Bear, and he feels that you can help with some projects I have in mind, projects that will not interfere with the rescue. But I need to know more about you. If you would, _bitte_ , tell me a little about yourselves and any special skills that you may have."

Beginning with Kinch, they briefly told her about themselves. When they were finished, she nodded.

" _Danke, meine Herren_." She looked at them soberly. "Herr James, Herr Baker, given that you are Negroes, it is impossible for me to use you in the same capacities as your friends."

She silently reviewed all the operations she had planned for the day and a couple that she had hoped to conduct before leaving Leipzig. After a few minutes, she spoke again, "However, all is not lost. Herr James, you worked at the telephone company in your home town."

" _Ja_."

" _Gut_. That will be very useful in sabotaging the telephone lines from the SS building. We assigned someone else to assist with that duty, but you will be far more useful I think. That would free him up for other duties. Your German is excellent, so we can also use you to direct some of the SS away from the annex. If you agree?" She raised a brow at him.

" _Jawohl, meine Dame."_

" _Gut_. Herr Baker, you worked for a radio station before the war. So you have a great deal of experience in radio communications?"

" _Ja_."

Cleopatra nodded. "We have a link into the stations in Leipzig. While you do have a foreign flavor to your accent, your German is also excellent." She shrugged. "We have grown used to foreign-accented German. I would like you to develop a fake news story that we can broadcast to the populace. Something that will get the attention of the SS and hopefully keep them away from the annex. You can also work with Ludwig, helping to coordinate our units. Is that acceptable?"``

" _Jawohl_ , but I don't know what you want me to say in a news story."

"We will talk of that later. Now," she turned to LeBeau, "you, _mon ami_ , are a French chef."

"And you want me to cook for you?" He said, disappointment creasing his face.

A faint smile. "I have an excellent chef already, _Monsieur_ _Louis_. And he knows about my unusual activities. But he is not one of my agents; you will realize why when you see him." Her expression grew serious. "There are several thousand French laborers in and around Leipzig. Some of them are here voluntarily, some are political prisoners, others captured soldiers, others forced laborers. I have need of some of them here on the estate — at least that will be the story. But at present, I have no one who can explain to them what we are trying to do for them. Needless to say, they do not trust Germans. We know that there is at least one collaborator among them. But we do not know who it is. We suspect they do, so we may be able to neutralize the collaborator if they help us. We have been given a French code by Henry, the Stage's man in France, that we are certain some of them will recognize. We need someone French to use the code and disseminate the information we need to give them."

"You want me to go into a labor camp alone," LeBeau said, his mind in a turmoil.

"That sounds like a suicide mission!" Newkirk objected.

"I will do it," LeBeau said firmly. "If I can help my fellow Frenchmen . . ."

"You are very brave, _M. Louis_ ," she said. "But we do have an easier way. You will be escorted to the camp as an assistant chef, and you will bring back several dozen workers for the estate. The message will be delivered to them here. And they will have a few filling meals to sustain them before they leave. Now," she turned to Newkirk, "what can I do with a man who has proven himself able to get through a lock I had thought was secure?"

For one of the few times in his life, Newkirk was reluctant to draw attention to his triumph. There was something about this woman that saw through his normal bluster. "I will do whatever you want, _gnädige Frau_ ," he said with unaccustomed modesty.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "There is a safe I had been hoping to look into, to see if there is any information that might prove useful to us. But I was unable to find someone who could help me. You might be able to open it and photograph whatever is inside."

"I have done that before, _meine Dame_."

"Then we will talk later. And that leaves you, my young friend," she said to Carter. "You seem to like explosives."

" _Ja, meine Dame_."

"May I ask why?"

Carter was taken aback. "Why?"

" _Ja_. Explosives used by grown men are often very dangerous to others and themselves. But they interest you. I am curious why."

"I . . ." Why did he like explosions and things? Nobody had ever asked him that before. Everyone else just wanted him to blow things up. "Well . . . I . . . I guess because people like them."

Her brow lifted. "People like explosions?"

" _Ja_. You see, I come from a really small town in North Dakota, much smaller than Hammelburg. Most of the folks are farmers or work on the Indian reservation or at the lumber camps, especially since the war started. There are only a couple of stores. The movie theater is in the next town and so is the high school. There were some dances at the churches but there are only two of them in town, and one of them is on the reservation. So, there wasn't much to do there. Except on the Fourth of July. Uh, you know what the Fourth of July is?"

Cleopatra nodded.

"Well, the town went all out. All week long, not just on the Fourth. There were picnics and hayrides and fun stuff like talent shows. And fireworks — lots and lots of sparklers and crackers and things that the kids could play with. And then on the Fourth, the businesses and farmers in the area chipped in and got a real fireworks expert from Bismarck — that's the capital of North Dakota — to do the fireworks show at the big Fourth of July picnic in the park." His face lit up as he remembered. "There were rockets shooting up into the sky — red, white, blue — and huge stars lighting up the sky. And everybody laughed and oohed and ahhed and clapped. It was the best time. It made everybody happy. I guess that's why I like them."

The other men in the room averted their eyes from his expression. For a moment, hearing him talk and watching his face, they were transported to a happier, simpler time, and a more naïve place far removed from the world they were in now.

Kinch looked at the woman staring in wonder at Carter.

Cleopatra stood and walked over to Carter. She touched his chin and tilted his head up to look at her. Then she kissed his forehead as a mother would. He blushed with embarrassment as she walked away from him and stood by the door.

" _Meine Herren_ , if you would follow me, _bitte_."

They stood and followed her out the door.

...

* * *

His scream had scarcely finished echoing in the cell when they released him from the rack. Gasping, blinded from sweat, he was thrown to the ground.

He fell heavily onto his side. Dazed, he watched with bloodshot tearing eyes as they threw some black bread next to him and replaced the water jug and the slop bucket before they left the cell.

He lay there, his back burning, all of his strength sapped by their torture. His eyes closed as exhaustion won. And he slept.

...

* * *

Hogan's men followed Cleopatra out of the cellar. To their surprise, she didn't take them back to the stone room; she went to a nearly invisible staircase. At the top, she knocked on the thick wooden door in a curious pattern. The door was opened by the tallest man they had ever seen, a man with a horrible scar running down the right side of his face.

"This is Bruno," Cleopatra introduced as she stepped into the small hallway. "My chef," she added, and smiled at LeBeau's astonished expression. "Are the others here?" she asked Bruno.

The giant man inclined his head and gestured to the right.

Cleopatra nodded. "You may serve in five minutes, Bruno."

The others followed her into the formal dining room. Five others were standing beside the table. Hogan's men recognized Ludwig by name, but the other three men and the woman were strangers.

"Be seated, _bitte_ ," Cleopatra said with a gesture. The elderly servant held a chair for her at the head of the table. " _Danke_ , Grünewald."

Hogan's men, feeling very out of place, sat at the far end of the table; the others sat closer to Cleopatra.

She looked at her people. "The gentlemen who arrived with Papa Bear are James, Baker, Louis, Andrew and Peter. And these are Ludwig who is my second-in-command, Heinz," a sun-roughened man in his late forties, "Otto," graying, late fifties with incredibly thick glasses, "his daughter, Ute," the tall, thin dark-haired woman, "and Gustav," a balding little man with a tired, wrinkled face. "I know the time is earlier than the normal midday meal, but we have all been awake for many hours, and we have important work ahead of us. So I am certain a filling meal will be more than welcome."

There were nods of agreement around the table.

"I am certain you all have questions," Cleopatra said. "However, they will have to wait until the end of our luncheon. Such moments of calm and good food are rare in our lives now, so it is best to enjoy them while we can."

As soon as she finished talking, Bruno, now clad in a white chef's uniform, and Grünewald began serving the food — a cup of onion soup with warm potato bread and cheese, tender sauerbraten with potato dumplings and red cabbage, small cheesecakes topped with pureed apples, sugar and cinnamon, and a local beer — all of them regional dishes.

To Hogan's men, the food was a revelation, especially to LeBeau, the connoisseur of the group. Familiar only with Hammelburg's few undersupplied eateries and LeBeau's cooking, they hadn't known what to expect.

"Well, _M. Louis_ ," Cleopatra said with a smile, "does the food meet with your expectations?"

LeBeau flushed, hastily swallowing his sauerbraten. " _Oui, Madame_ ," he mumbled; his expectations had been very low. "What I mean is . . . "

Cleopatra laughed, saving him the embarrassment of answering. "Bruno learned his craft at _Cordon Bleu_ in Paris after the first war. My late husband's father hired him shortly afterwards with the stipulation that he turn his talents toward traditional Saxony cooking."

LeBeau was suitably impressed. "I would say, _meine Dame_ , that he has succeeded splendidly."

Cleopatra smiled. "In case you are wondering, _meine Herren_ , I do not eat like this every day. The circumstances of the day are extraordinary and deserve extraordinary repasts for all concerned."

"Uh, Frau Cleopatra," Kinch began.

"Later, Herr James. For now, enjoy the food, the company and the surroundings."

And enjoy they did, Kinch had to admit. Conversation was light, far removed from the war, and covered a myriad of topics from the classical music playing softly in the background to art to theater and beyond. Each man, unlikely as it seemed to them when they entered the dining room, was able to find something of interest as the conversations swirled around them.

But all too quickly, the idyllic pause ended. After the dishes had been removed, Bruno came in carrying a silver tray with a bottle of Leipziger Allasch, a clear, sweet and strong local spirit, and twelve glasses. He poured out the liqueur and placed a glass in front of everyone beginning with Cleopatra. He then sat, to the surprise of the Allied soldiers, at the head of the table.

Cleopatra lifted her glass in a toast." _Prosit_!"

" _Prosit_!" her guests echoed and drank.

Kinch took a sip and nearly choked; it was a lot stronger than he'd expected. Carter, oddly, seemed to like the fiery liquid, as did Newkirk.

Cleopatra set her glass down. "Now, to business." Her eyes swept them. "I brought you together because I have specific tasks for each of you that will considerably help our cause and the rescue of the Stage and Hamlet. You Germans already know what they are. After learning what skills Papa Bear's men possess, I have decided to assign them to your teams as their talents will make your tasks easier and more efficient.

"Herr Louis," she turned to face the diminutive Frenchman, "you will go with Bruno and Heinz."

LeBeau blinked in surprise.

"As I have already said, Bruno is my chef. Heinz is my steward; he manages the farm and the estate. They will help you with the task I mentioned to you earlier. I should make you aware that Bruno lost his hearing due to a childhood accident. An operation restored it a number of years ago, but we still maintain the fiction when I have Nazi guests in the house. Sadly, he lost his voice not long ago in an air raid, so he can communicate with you only in writing or through Heinz who understands sign language. Now, _meine Herren_ , you are excused."

Bruno and Heinz stood and waited for LeBeau. LeBeau, more than a bit apprehensive, nodded goodbye to his friends and left with the two men.

"Now, Herr Andrew, you are assigned to Otto. Otto and Ute are in charge of making explosive devices of all kinds. For the rescue, we will need quite a bit of explosives. Otto repairs and builds intricate watches for a living; his daughter Ute is his assistant. Together, they build intricate weapons. However, you are more familiar with the types of explosives that will bring down buildings and how to place them. Our past efforts have been more limited. Otto will explain what we need, and you will have a free hand in devising what will best accomplish our goals. Ute, meine Herren, you are excused."

Otto and Ute rose. Carter murmured a goodbye to his friends and joined Otto and Ute as they left.

"Herr James, you will be joining Gustav at the central telephone interchange for Leipzig. He will explain what we have already done and what still needs to be done."

Kinch nodded a goodbye to Baker and Newkirk and left with the small man.

Cleopatra smiled at Baker. "And that leaves you, Herr Baker."

Newkirk's brow lifted. _What about me?_

Baker smiled. "You are one heck of an organizer, _meine Dame_ , if you don't mind my saying so."

Oddly, he saw sadness on her face. "I have had years of experience, my friend. Far too many years. Now," Cleopatra stood, "if you will accompany Ludwig and me, we will explain what we need you to do."

Newkirk, feeling left out, couldn't decide what he should do. Did she forget him?

Baker and Ludwig were already leaving the room when Cleopatra smiled and looked at Newkirk. "Did you think I had forgotten you, Herr Peter?"

Newkirk stood hurriedly. "Well . . . "

"You, Herr Peter, are now engaged as my chauffeur. As such, you will attend to me. In a short time, we will be taking a trip to a city you and friends were very eager to visit."

As they left the dining room, Grünewald hurried in to remove the remains of their meal.

...

* * *

At Stalag Luft 13, RAF Captain John Witton tried to interest himself in the paperwork on the desk. He really did. But after nearly an hour of trying to make sense of Martin's inventory, he gave up in disgust and tossed the inventory to the side of the desk. _And me, a former certified public accountant in a million-dollar company!_ But he just couldn't concentrate.

He stood and looked out the window at the camp. At least, the weather was somewhat better. Fair weather, their meteorologist Sgt. McMahon had said. Whatever.

But weather wasn't the issue. He turned back to the desk as he heard a knock. And pretty Hilda announced as she opened the door, "Captain Martin."

Witton smiled. "Great. Come on in, Martin." And frowned at the sheaf of papers in Martin's hand. "Thanks, Hilda."

With a sigh, Witton went back to the desk as the door closed behind Hilda. "More paperwork?"

Martin grinned. "Yup."

Witton made a face. "No wonder Hogan hates admin." He sat down and motioned Martin to do the same. "No offense, Ed, but I can't get interested in this stuff today."

Martin's grin faded as he sat down. "Truth? Neither can I. This," he waved the papers, "I did yesterday." He dropped the paperwork on the desk. "Have you heard anything?"

Witton shook his head. "Not a word. And I'm not sure if I should be glad or not. Maybe I should ask Schultz."

"Schultz is walking around like a caged bear, a very grumpy caged bear."

Witton snorted and leaned back in the chair. He looked at Martin curiously. "How did you do it, Ed?"

"Huh?"

"You've been here a while. You saw Hogan and the others disappear for hours, sometimes days. How did you keep from worrying about them?"

A wry smile. "Oddly, it wasn't that hard then. I mean, Hogan was too busy to care about the camp, so I had that job. By myself for a while, until Warren and Mitchell showed up. I didn't have time to worry about what went on outside the camp. And then they were really only gone for a short time. Well, most of the time. And they were usually close by. The only time I was really worried was in January when they went after Klink."

"Did you think they'd be back?"

Martin chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think I did," he finally said. "But then again, we didn't know what was actually going on. We knew Klink was gone, and that wasn't unusual. But, of course, we didn't know who he was, didn't know that Hochstetter had arrested him and we sure as heck never dreamed that Hochstetter was torturing him. Or that Hogan was on a nearly impossible mission to rescue him. And we definitely didn't know how easily everything could have fallen apart after they came back to camp. My God, when I think of what could have happened when the Gestapo and SS were zeroing in on Klink after they got back, I get the cold sweats."

"Okay, that I didn't hear. Zeroing in on Klink?"

A very faint smile. "The story Hogan told, that they were being interrogated by the SS in some super secret installation, was backed up by real SS guys. And don't ask me how that happened! And Schultz, he was with them the entire time, so of course, they were believed. But the kicker in the story was Klink. From what we gathered even then was that the Gestapo and SS figured out that not only was Klink the last person to see Hochstetter alive, but no one could alibi Klink for six hours of the time he was gone. Hochstetter was dead, his men were dead, his torture chamber was a burning ruin. And here was Klink, not dead and not at that ruin."

"Oh, sweet Lord," Witton murmured. "And of course, they wanted to know what happened during that time. But," he looked at Martin, "they cleared him."

"Cleared him, yeah." Martin shuddered. "They didn't touch him physically. But they questioned him nearly nonstop for some thirty hours."

Witton stared at him. "Thirty hours?"

Martin nodded. "We didn't think much about it then. I mean I guess we, I figured it couldn't have been too pleasant. But, hey, it was Klink! So, who cared if he was being browbeaten, humiliated, or denied rest and food during that time? Right? Right." His voice dropped into a semi-whisper. "My God, tortured for three days, and then he comes back and walks into that interrogation. I don't know how he did it."

"Maybe he didn't expect . . . " His voice faded as Martin looked at him in disbelief. His head shook. "Forget I said that."

A knock interrupted and Lt. J.B. Miller opened the door. There was a grin on his face. "Just heard from Baker, sir," he announced in a loud voice. "They got there safely."

"And?" Witton demanded.

"And," Miller's exuberance faded a little, "and that's really all, sir. They got to Leipzig, and the mission is on track."

"Leipzig?" came Hilda's unexpected voice. "Colonel Hogan is in Leipzig?"

Miller had a chagrined look on his face. "Uh, sorry, sir."

Witton sighed. "Dismissed, Miller." And he looked at Hilda as Miller made a hurried exit.

" _Bitte_ , Captain, what is going on?" she asked.

Witton and Martin exchanged looks.

Hilda gave an exasperated snort. "Gentlemen, I have been helping Colonel Hogan sometimes knowingly, sometimes not, for a long time. _Bitte_ , what is going on?"

Witton looked at Martin, who shrugged. "All right. Have a seat, Hilda."

Hilda sat down and looked expectantly at Witton.

Witton cleared his throat. "First, what have you heard?"

She managed a graceful shrug. "Heard officially, nothing." She looked evenly at Witton. "But I know that you are here, and Colonel Hogan is not. And his men are also missing. So, they must have left, as they used to do. Many times."

Martin grinned. "Many times is right." And fell silent as Witton glared at him.

"And the Kommandant?" Witton asked, his eyes on her face.

"At first, I had thought that he had gone to see Doctor Bauer again. But Schultz is here, and Schultz is worried, so — "

A knock interrupted her.

"What?" Witton snapped as Martin murmured, "Grand Central station in here today."

And Hauptmann Fritz Gruber opened the door to Witton and Martin's surprise.

"Captain Gruber?" Witton asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Lt. Miller told me of the message he received. And that _Fräulein_ Hilda," his eyes went to her, "had heard part of it. May I be of some assistance?"

Martin's mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut; he still wasn't used to the new Gruber. And he looked at Witton, Witton who didn't really know the old Gruber.

Witton leaned back in the chair and gestured. "Be my guest, Captain."

" _Fräulein_ , you have questions?" Gruber asked.

Hilda glanced at Witton and then turned to face Gruber. "Where are Colonel Hogan and Kommandant Klink?"

"As you heard, _Fräulein_ , Leipzig." He held up a hand to forestall her next question. "I will give you the same answer I gave the guards last night. One of the Kommandant's men is in trouble and he has gone to help him. Since the Kommandant is officially a prisoner, Colonel Hogan and his men accompanied him."

Hilda was silent for a moment and then stood, smoothing her dark green skirt as she rose. " _Danke schön, Herr Hauptmann_. I will return to my duties."

Surprised, Witton and Martin stared at her.

"That's it?" Martin asked, standing. "No more questions?"

Hilda smiled faintly. "If I have learned nothing else in the many months I have worked here, sir, I have learned that it is not always wise to know much of what is going on." _At least not yet._ " _Danke schön_ , gentlemen." And she left the office with a faint smile, leaving the two Americans to stare after her.

Gruber, however, nodded approvingly and turned to look at the Americans.

"Uh, thanks, Captain," Witton said.

" _Bitte_ ," Gruber answered and turned to go.

"Captain."

" _Ja_?"

"Leipzig," Witton said. "That's a good distance from here. Right?"

" _Jawohl_."

"Know how they got there?"

Gruber's brow rose. " _Nein_."

"Any ideas?"

Gruber smiled. "As you have already discovered, Captain Witton, the Kommandant is a very resourceful man."

Witton returned his smile almost reluctantly. "Yeah, I guess he is. Thanks again, Captain."

Gruber bowed slightly and left the office. And left the two Americans staring at each other.

"I think I underestimated that man," Martin said conversationally, folding his arms.

Witton laughed and reached for the paperwork that Martin brought in. "Come on, Ed. Let's see if we can make any sense out of this stuff."

Martin grimaced and turned his attention to the papers on the desk.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

March 28, 1945

French Corporal Louis LeBeau was terrified — he was man enough to admit it. Terrified. He was walking into the French concentration camp north of Leipzig voluntarily. It wasn't a very large one as concentration camps go. And not really into it; he was walking to a building that was outside the fence. But it was a concentration camp all the same.

LeBeau had to resist the temptation to run his finger along the unfamiliar scratchy collar of the borrowed suit he was wearing. It fit him well enough, but he was sweating under the collar, literally.

He and his bodyguard, there was no other word for him — though LeBeau wasn't sure what he could or would do if there was real trouble — walked into the headquarters building.

LeBeau stood respectfully in front of the desk officer as Heinz Meyer, Anna Neumann's steward, proffered the orders to the officer.

"You work for Frau Neumann as an assistant chef."

" _Oui, Monsieur_ ," LeBeau answered.

"And Frau Neumann has need of thirty laborers to work her fields for a couple of days."

"More laborers, if possible," LeBeau said in very carefully enunciated German. "Frau Neumann has provided a truck for them. We will take as many as can fit."

"And they will be planting food crops for our citizens."

" _Oui, Monsieur_. And," LeBeau continued in that controlled tone — Cleopatra had warned him to be very subservient and very mindful with these SS officers — "and they must be fit enough to work well in the fields. Frau Neumann provides foodstuffs to the highest-ranking officers and important people in the city. Her standards, and theirs, are very high."

The officer smiled. "As they should be." The officer stood. "Come."

LeBeau and Heinz followed the SS officer out. LeBeau's eyes swept the part of the compound that he could see, trying not to stare. He had to swallow the lump in his throat as he saw the thin dispirited prisoners shuffling by. Some were already on work details, carrying picks and shovels; half of them looked as if they could barely hold the tools. LeBeau wanted nothing more than to take them all back to the estate. But he couldn't. He couldn't do anything for them. Another swallow.

LeBeau could see the guards looking over the various prisoners in the compound and pulling some of them away from the other groups. Soon, there were forty-three men, standing in front of the building. Most of the prisoners were resigned to their impending fate; some of them stared at LeBeau with contempt in their eyes. And there was one, one who didn't seem to fit with the others. _That one_ , LeBeau thought, _that one I wouldn't turn my back on_.

The truck from the estate came around the building; the chosen prisoners were herded into it.

LeBeau thanked the SS officer with diffident respect and got into the car that was waiting for him.

He and Heinz, followed by the truck, drove through the camp's outer gates.

Heinz glanced at LeBeau's white face. "Well done, my friend," he said softly. "Well done."

"The collaborator is with them," LeBeau said in a shaky voice.

"I saw. He will be taken care of; a farm can be a very dangerous place. You still have a job to do. You must convince the others to trust us."

LeBeau looked doubtful. "They think I am a collaborator."

"That is what Henry's code is for."

"What if none of them knows it?"

Heinz sighed. "That is possible. In that case, we will try again with another group of laborers."

LeBeau nodded. "You have done this before?"

"Often. For years."

LeBeau looked at him with profound respect. "Are there many of you?"

" _Nein_. Most people," he shrugged, "most people are too frightened for themselves or their families, especially after the arrests of so many people who opposed Hitler such as Oberbürgermeister Goerdeler."

"Who?"

"Carl Friedrich Goerdeler; he was the Oberbürgermeister of Leipzig until 1937. He knew many in the Resistance, and even went to the United States and England to try to get help for our cause.(1) If an assassination of Hitler had succeeded, he might have become Germany's leader and the war would have been finished. But he was arrested last year and executed in February."

"Have you lost many comrades?"

Heinz was silent.

"Forgive me," LeBeau said. "I did not mean to offend."

"I think you will find, _Monsieur_ ," Heinz said in a sad voice, "that there are few in Germany who have not lost a family member, friend or neighbor in this war."

LeBeau nodded soberly, remembering his own losses. "Or in Europe."

"Or in Europe," Heinz agreed.

They continued on their way in silence.

...

* * *

...

Atop a grain silo surrounded by fields, Sergeant Richard Baker removed the headphones and changed the frequency on the radio. He smiled. Miller had been elated to hear from him, despite the fact that Baker couldn't tell him much of anything.

"Thanks for letting me call the camp," Baker said to Ludwig.

The younger man smiled briefly. " _Bitte sehr_! I am certain they were worried."

"They would be more worried if they knew what was really going on."

A faint smile. Ludwig limped over to another radio and sat down heavily in front of it.

Baker walked over and whistled softly. "That is one powerful transmitter. Where did it come from?"

"I built it from parts we had taken from different radio stations in the city," Ludwig said with quiet pride.

"You built it? Wow, you're one bright kid."

Ludwig laughed briefly. "I admit to being bright, but I am not a 'kid'."

"Don't take this wrong, but what are you doing on a farm? If you could build this, I'd think you'd be more useful in a real radio station."

"Or in the military," Ludwig said softly, his eyes meeting Baker's. "I was once."

"Military or radio station?" Baker asked in the same tone.

"Both. I worked at several Leipzig radio stations as an engineer until I was finally forced into the military. I was nearly sent to the Russian Front."

"But you're here."

"Bad luck. Or good. Depending on your perspective. In 1942, I was caught in a British air raid the night before I was to leave. I spent weeks in a hospital."

"How did you get here?"

" _Mutter_ knew Frau Neumann's housekeeper, Frau Ziegler; she interceded for me. After an interview in the hospital with Frau Neumann, she hired me. She strongly 'suggested' that if anyone — the doctors, officials, military — came to talk to me, I should exaggerate my injuries. Not the physical ones, which were severe, but I also had a bad concussion and was unconscious for several days. So, feigning confusion was not difficult. When Frau Neumann made it clear that she wished to take me on as a servant and she would be responsible for my care, the hospital authorities were happy to release me."

Baker nodded. "You got lucky."

"I know, Herr Baker. _We_ know. There are a number of us on the estate and off who owe our employment and our lives to Frau Neumann. Even without her Resistance activities, most of us would do anything for her. And now," his tone changed to a brisk one, "it is time we went to work. Have a seat, Herr Baker. There is much to show you."

...

* * *

...

Wearing a chauffeur's uniform, RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk was in the driver's seat of a large Mercedes. Seated behind and to his right was Cleopatra, whom he now knew as Frau Anna Neumann. She was as serene as ever as she gave him the directions to the center of Leipzig.

At first, the road from the estate went past fields of farmland interspersed with small lakes and woods. Many of the fields that seemed to go on forever, he was astonished to learn, belonged to her. But as they journeyed on, the fields disappeared and they were on the outskirts of the great city. This was the southwestern part of Leipzig, seemingly untouched by the war. The wide streets were clear of damage — as far as Newkirk could tell, there had been none in this part of the city. They had no problems with vehicular traffic. There was little — mainly municipal buses, some military traffic and a few, very few private cars and trucks. But the trams — those Newkirk had to watch for. They ran down the middle of the streets with regularity, sometimes one in each direction. They had an unfortunate habit of stopping every few blocks, dropping off or getting passengers. And when they did, Newkirk had to watch out for pedestrians who paid no attention to the trams moving down the streets or to any other traffic. Neither did they pay attention to signal lights — there weren't any thus far. All of which led to Newkirk uttering a few choice words under his breath as he drove toward the center of the city.

Now, they were approaching the city center, and . . .

Newkirk gulped. He had seen the fire-ravaged areas of Hammelburg, of course. But Hammelburg was a small town. This was a teeming city of a million with tens of thousands of buildings, a huge university, and a city center dating back to the Middle Ages. And here, near the city center . . .

Newkirk struggled to cope with what he was seeing. Buildings, street upon street of buildings, were unrecognizable. Not gone — gone buildings would have been easier to deal with. Many buildings were crushed, reduced to rubble, or to blackened skeletons with their insides gutted. Here and there was a shell of what had once been an apartment building, a school, a store, with nothing but a mishmash of bricks and wood filling the roofless interior. And the people — they were walking in front of those devastated remains, sometimes walking on the streets to avoid rubble, as if the ruins didn't exist.

Newkirk found himself shuddering as he slowed the car to a crawl to avoid the pedestrians, the trams and the building-high piles of debris. How many people were buried under that rubble? How could anyone even begin to guess at a number?

"You have never seen such destruction?" Anna asked softly.

"Why would you build factories in these building?" Newkirk asked in a tight voice. "Why deliberately invite bombings?"

Anna's brow lifted. "There are no factories here, _mein Herr_. This is the city center, the cultural center of Leipzig. That had been the art museum . . . "

Newkirk turned to look at what was now a roofless shell filled with girders, beams and debris. And there in the back, standing in a niche in seeming defiance of the bombers, was an intact statue.

"Fortunately, most of the rare pieces were taken away. Many of the buildings you see here," she gestured at the damage, "were involved with printing and publishing books; people from all over Europe used to attend our book fairs. The University of Leipzig is east of here. It has existed since the 15th century; most of it was destroyed."

"But . . . "

"I am afraid that your RAF bombers are not as discriminating as the Amis' bombers. Their goal is to destroy as much of the German cities as they can.(2)"

"That can't be right! You're wrong!"

"Refusing to believe it does not make it wrong, Herr Peter."

The car continued to wend its way toward the _Neues Rathaus(_ 3). After thirty minutes of snaking around the damaged areas, Anna leaned forward. "The Rathaus is there." She nodded across the huge debris filled space.

The massive stone Rathaus with its turrets and incredibly tall tower had Newkirk staring; it looked as big as Buckingham Palace! While damaged, the immense Rathaus hadn't sustained as much damage as the other buildings in the area — many of those had been reduced to pulverized rubble. "You may leave the car there." She nodded toward a spot near the entrance. "Now, listen closely. Your life and mine depend on you behaving exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

Newkirk swallowed the lump of fear in his throat and nodded.

"Remember that you are unable to speak due to injuries received on the front, and you are a little deaf. Therefore, you are now my chauffeur. I know both Oberbürgermeister Freyberg and his deputy Lisso and have reasonably easy access to both of them. Their regular staffs know me, so if I walk straight into the Oberbürgermeister's office, it will not seem strange to them. I was told that both men will be gone for a few hours. That will allow us to be in the office alone for at least a few minutes so that I can leave invitations to an upcoming dinner. You will then be able to examine the safe. If the safe is familiar to you _and_ you can open it in a few seconds, you will try to do so."

"If I can't?"

Anna shrugged. "Then my curiosity will remain unsatisfied. You have an important mission later tonight and I, and most of my people, will be leaving in another week or so, so it is not critical to see what is in the safe." She looked at him. "Do you understand? The safe is not worth your life or mine, not this close to the end."

Newkirk nodded. " _Ich verstehe_."

" _Gut_." A thin smile. "Now, as a proper chauffeur, you will, _bitte_ , get out of the car, and open the door for me."

Newkirk nearly scowled but then he smiled faintly. " _Jawohl, meine Dame_." And doing what she said, he got out of the car and opened the door for her.

The area had few people in it and only a handful of vehicles on the streets. Newkirk's eyes swept the vicinity, looking for escape routes if they encountered trouble. Most of the streets were out; they had been closed off by crumpled buildings. Newkirk sighed silently; it looked like their only option was the street they had just taken. Anna on the other hand was oblivious to the streets, the damage and the people. She swept regally between two large stone lions into the building and, trailed by Newkirk, strode up the stairs toward the Oberbürgermeister's office.

Anna stopped at a desk; a solid looking woman was seated there.

The woman stood quickly. "Frau Neumann! What a pleasure to see you again!"

Anna smiled at her. " _Danke_ , Inge. Is Oberbürgermeister Freyborg in?"

" _Nein, meine Dame_. He and Herr Lisso are in conference."

"Well, I do not need to see them. I have invitations to a dinner party in a few weeks for them. If I may go in and leave them?"

"Of course, Frau Neumann. _Bitte_!" The secretary gestured.

Anna walked toward the door. " _Kommen_ , Rolf," she ordered loudly as she opened the door.

Inside the large office, Anna walked over to the desk. She gestured toward the opposite wall; Newkirk went over to the safe.

Anna busied herself, taking two ornate envelopes from her purse and placing them in the center of the desk. "Well?"

Newkirk was studying the safe closely. "Made in Dusseldorf," he muttered. "Old." He squatted down and looked closer. "Very old. And," he sighed loudly and looked up at her, "I'm sorry. If I were Alfie, I could do it. But," he shrugged, "I'm not." He stood.

Anna walked closer. "It was worth a try. _Danke_." Anna looked out of the window at the plaza. There was sadness in her eyes as she surveyed the scene.

" _Meine Dame_?" Newkirk went to her side.

"I will miss this city," she said softly. "I would have liked to be part of its rebirth."

"You will be," Newkirk said. "When the war is over. You can come back and — "

She was shaking her head. "I will never come back. Once the Soviets loot the city and fill it with their propaganda and ugly buildings, it will no longer be the city I love."

She turned away from the window. "Come, it is time to leave."

Trailing behind her, Newkirk left the office.

It was a silent drive back to the estate. Newkirk found himself watching her in the mirror. Her eyes seemed to drink in the city, the ruined and the still whole parts.

At her order, Newkirk stopped the car before they reached the house. Without waiting for Newkirk, Anna opened the door and stood staring at the house. She turned slowly, looking at the landscaped drive and the narrow paths leading into the gardens and the fields beyond. She stood there a long time.

She was saying goodbye, Newkirk suddenly realized. Goodbye to her home, her city, her old life.

Then she straightened and walked resolutely into the house.

...

* * *

...

Sergeant Andrew James Carter was in heaven. Or so it seemed to his fevered mind. For hours, he had been ensconced in a thickly lined storm cellar under a dilapidated barn a quarter of a mile from the manor house. Surrounding him were a number of the goodies that he had found and coveted in the wine cellar. Standing next to him was a limping blond-haired youth a few years younger than he named Friedrich Meyer.

"Herr Andrew," Friedrich said, showing him a small rectangular box. "Is this the correct setting?"

Carter took the box from him and peered closely. "Almost." Carter took a small screwdriver and carefully moved the setting to the correct time. "You need to add a couple of extra minutes to each timer. Cleopatra wants them to go off in succession. It'll drive the SS crazy when the bombs start going off all over the place at different times."

He looked at the others in the cellar who were assembling the explosives. One of them was Otto. Another was his daughter, Ute; the sober young woman in her twenties was also a watchmaker.

"Finished," Ute said with a pleased expression.

Otto grunted in acknowledgement.

"That makes seventy-five explosives, Herr Andrew," Friedrich said.

Carter nodded. "Seventy-five down, and another fifty to go."

Cleopatra, followed by Newkirk, came down the ladder. "Excellent, Herr Andrew," she said in a pleased voice. "You are ahead of schedule."

"I've got a good crew," Carter said, unconsciously echoing his Colonel Hogan.

Cleopatra smiled. "I have learned that there will be seven SS vehicles on the street in front of the annex. Do you have the bombs for the automobiles?"

" _Ja_. They're over there on that table." He nodded toward a small table half hidden by the ladder. "Uh, _meine Dame_? Who's going to plant those? They have to be wired into the cars."

"Richard's men will handle that task, Herr Andrew," Cleopatra said. "They will pick up the bombs at 2200."

" _Meine Dame_?"

" _Ja_ , Herr Andrew?"

"I don't remember talking about that during the meeting earlier."

Cleopatra smiled. "There are a number of operations that were not covered at the meeting, Herr Andrew. Such as," her hand swept the cellar, "your endeavors. And Herr James's, Herr Baker's and Herr Louis's. We operate on a need-to-know basis. Not even I know all the details of the operations being handled by Richard's and Hamlet's men." She tilted her head at him. "And that is odd to you."

" _Ja_ , I guess we're just used to knowing everything, I mean, all the details."

"But it was normally just five of you."

"I guess there are a lot more than that now."

Cleopatra nodded.

"Uh, _meine Dame_?"

" _Ja_

"Herr Andrew?"

"Can I ask you . . . That is, is all of this just to rescue Hamlet and the Stage? I mean, just the bits I'm hearing, it sounds like a lot more than just a rescue mission."

Cleopatra smiled at his guess. "You are correct, Herr Andrew. It is a lot more. Hamlet and I were told that we are to shut down our operations. We had made tentative plans to hit various SS sites in the city and outside of it to aid the approaching Allied armies. This city has seen enough death and destruction, and we were hoping to spare the approaching armies and the city unnecessary bloodshed. Hamlet's capture and the Stage's plan have accelerated those plans."

"And Richard? Is he included in the shutdown?"

Another smile. "Richard's base is in Berlin. He happened to be here when Hamlet was captured. As for the shutdown, Richard will absorb those of our units who wish to remain in the area."

"So, he's not going to shut down?"

"As you may have gathered, Richard is a unique individual. His loyalty to the Stage is absolute, but he is also avidly anti-Nazi and avidly anti-Stalin. So is the Stage. And as such, the Stage has allowed Richard far more autonomy than the rest of us. Richard will allow those who wish to leave to do so. But he will continue his operations as much as he is able even after the war ends."

Carter nodded. And added, "If you don't mind my saying so, I don't like him. He seems, I don't know, really cruel."

"Life has made him so, Herr Andrew," Cleopatra said softly. "He saw everything he loved destroyed by the Nazis, his wife, his children, friends. It made him hateful, vengeful, unforgiving. If the Stage had not saved his life, he would eventually have destroyed anyone who stood in his way, including those who did no harm. He owes the Stage the restoration of his humanity, and he knows it. And so, he takes what he sees as threats to the Stage very seriously."

Carter nodded. "I guess I can understand that."

Cleopatra smiled faintly. "Herr Peter is now available to help you." She nodded at Newkirk. "Unfortunately, our mission was unsuccessful. I will leave you now. When you are finished, return to the stone room for dinner. All of you must rest and sleep before the raid."

" _Jawohl_ , we will."

" _Gut_." Cleopatra went back to the ladder and left.

Carter's eyes had stayed on her as she left. He had never met anyone like her before.

"A lady, a real lady," Newkirk said beside him. "She shouldn't have to know about bombs and the SS and everything."

Carter nodded in agreement.

"Well, Andrew, my lad," Newkirk said with fake heartiness. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well," Carter looked around the storm cellar, "if you could just double-check," he started toward a shelf filled with small bombs, "these . . ."

...

* * *

...

In a field house on the back fields, Louis LeBeau and Heinz Meyer had watched the French laborers he'd brought back to the estate. Heinz was the one who gave the orders to the workers and to the two armed field hands guarding them; LeBeau translated his orders. LeBeau's task, besides taking water out to the laborers with the help of a young boy, was to see if he could discern which man to approach with the message. He'd spotted a couple of men who seemed to be the informal leaders of the laborers. He'd also spotted at least one man who appeared to be close to the one he was sure was the collaborator; he pointed out the man to Heinz. Heinz had nodded and positioned one of the armed guards closer to that laborer. But LeBeau had had few opportunities to talk with the other men privately. They were wary of him, thinking he was a collaborator or a traitor, and then again, the hands were there to work. LeBeau had to admit that the manual labor was difficult and time-consuming; the ground was still thawing out from the hard winter. LeBeau had been a little surprised that it took men to do the back-breaking work.

Heinz shrugged. "Petrol for farm machinery is difficult to get, even for a person with Frau Neumann's connections. Military vehicles take precedence. So, we are forced to use farmhands for the work."

LeBeau nodded. "It is starting to get dark. Can they continue working?"

Heinz smiled thinly. " _Nein_ , not in the fields. But there is work they can do indoors. In a few minutes, we will be taking them to a supply building where they will be fed and housed for the night." He looked at LeBeau. "You will need to use the code soon, Herr Louis."

LeBeau nodded.

It was just getting dark when the laborers followed by the armed men, Heinz and LeBeau walked to a large barn on the far western border of the estate. The men were herded inside. And murmurs began among them, murmurs of surprise and disbelief. In the middle of the barn, a long trestle table held several pots of still hot potato soup, cheese and loaves of warm bread.

"The food is for you," LeBeau announced in French. "After you have eaten, you will clean and oil the tools and leathers stored here. When it is time, you will sleep in the hayloft up there." LeBeau gestured.

"You are an unusual overseer," murmured the man LeBeau thought was the leader as the men eagerly fell on the food.

LeBeau shrugged. "I serve an unusual lady. As for me, 'I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve [her] truly that will put me in trust; to love [her] that is honest; to converse with [her] that is wise, and says little.'"(4)

The man gave him a searching glance before answering in a low voice, "'In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.'"(5)

"'But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger,'"(6) LeBeau finished.

The man nodded. "My name is Gaston. You know Henry."

"We have met. There is a traitor here."

"Two."

LeBeau nodded and whispered in a harsh voice, "Do what you must."

"The guards . . . "

"They see _nothing_! Farms are dangerous places."

There was no humor in Gaston's smile. " _Oui_ , they are."

"I have a message from the Lady. If she can help, she will. So will Heinz and the others who work for her. But you must be discreet," LeBeau said. "Do you understand German?"

Gaston nodded. "I speak it as well."

"We will leave now and lock the doors. No one will disturb you. Heinz will let you out in the morning."

"Will you . . .?"

"My task is finished," LeBeau said. "I will not be here."

"Then, _merci beaucoup, M. Louis. Bonjour_ , and _bonne chance_!"

...

* * *

...

It was after 1900 when Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe found himself inside a maze of utility corridors following two of Cleopatra's men. Behind him, carrying submachine guns were two more of her people. They were walking under the central telephone exchange for Leipzig. Kinch had been stunned when he saw the plans in Cleopatra's office; they encompassed most of the city. He hadn't expected anything that detailed. And he shook his head in astonished admiration.

Cleopatra had smiled faintly. "It has taken us a long time to gather these plans, Herr James."

That had surprised him for a moment. Then he nodded. There was a vast difference between the plans for a small place like Hammelburg and a city of nearly a million. And he had to admit it had taken him longer than he liked to go through them. Given the complexity of the plans, he was surprised that Cleopatra didn't have a man already in place who understood them. Something he had mentioned to the small man ahead of him.

Gustav had looked up at him with even more sorrow on his perpetually sad face when he explained, "Herr Pohl was killed in the last air raid."

"Oh," Kinch managed to say.

And that was the reason Kinch was here. Gustav was eager to help with his end of the rescue mission, but he couldn't do it alone. Gustav's job, and now Kinch's, was to reroute the lines leading from the SS annex and SS headquarters to other locations. That way, the annex couldn't call for outside help when the attacks began. Additionally, the SS headquarters would be getting a series of fake calls from Gustav and Kinch to direct the rest of the SS away from the annex. Kinch and Gustav had figured they would have roughly five hours to do that, and then they would have to leave. After planting a few small explosives to disrupt the system even more.

Kinch had been surprised when Cleopatra specified a few small explosives. "Why don't you blow the whole thing?" he had asked. "It's much easier." He was startled at the horrified looks on the faces of Gustav and the people accompanying him.

Cleopatra had looked at him soberly. "This is still our city, Herr James, and our people. We do what we can against the SS and the Gestapo and even the Wehrmacht to end this insanity. But we try not to hurt women and children and those who have already lost everything. We do not attack hospitals or schools or churches or museums. And we try as much as we are able to minimize the hurt done to our people and those institutions. Destroying the entire telephone system for the city will hurt them. And," she added with a faint smile, "it will also hurt _our_ ability to contact _our_ people."

"Oh." And he had to ask. "Just how many people are there in your section?"

"I believe in your army they would be considered a battalion."

Kinch had choked on his coffee as he stared at the slim older woman. "You control a battalion?"

"In number. But remember, it is a battalion spread over hundreds of square kilometers. This particular mission involves far more people than our usual operations. And involves not only my people but part of Richard's and Hamlet's as well."

"So, it's the biggest one you've conducted."

"And the last one."

Kinch had looked at her with surprise.

"The Stage has informed us that Leipzig and most of my territory will be within the Soviet zone after the war. He has ordered us to disband our units and destroy all traces of our operations as soon as possible."

"And your people?"

"He prefers that we also leave. Some will choose to stay, but most of us will begin leaving after this mission is finished. I will be gone in a week or so." She had looked at her watch. "It is time for you to go, Herr James. _Viel Glück_."

Kinch now looked at his watch. Almost 2000.

Gustav opened a steel door in a dim corridor and stepped inside. "We have arrived, Herr James." He flicked a light switch and the lights went on.

Kinch stepped inside the brightly lit room. And stared. And stared. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

...

* * *

Endnotes

1 Agostino von Hassell & Sigrid MacRae: _Alliance of Enemies, The Untold Story of the Secret American and German Collaboration to End World War II._

2 Sir Arthur Harris, head of British Bomber Command since 1942, opposed the precision bombing conducted by the U.S. in favor of bombing cities and civilian populations. Harris was convinced that destroying cities and civilians would end the war. Despite evidence of the effectiveness of precision bombing and the failure of area bombing to damage German morale and weapons' production, and despite being told to concentrate on targets such as railroads, etc., he refused to change his policy, frequently ignoring orders and bypassing military targets in favor of destroying cities with few military targets. Randall Hansen: _Fire and Fury, The Allied Bombing of Germany 1942 – 1945._

3 "New Townhall" completed in 1905.

4 William Shakespeare: _King Lear_

5 William Shakespeare: _Henry V_

6 Ibid


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

March 28, 1945

SS sergeant Bernd Felsenthal(1) pulled the shorter, lighter Hogan out of the car by his handcuffed hands.

"Hey!" Hogan yelled. "That hurts!" And it did, damn it!

Felsenthal ignored Hogan and thrust him toward the steps of the building.

Hogan nearly tripped over his feet when he tried to correct his balance as he bumped into the first step. "Will you — !"

Felsenthal ignored him again and began pushing him up the steps to the front door. And Felsenthal kept on shoving Hogan as he tried to walk with an attempt at balance. The last push propelled Hogan into the heavy wooden double door.

" _Verdammt_!" Hogan yelled and turned, and found the front of the rifle under his chin.

Hogan stopped yelling, stopped breathing. There was a look in Felsenthal's eyes that alarmed him.

Felsenthal's partner, SS Corporal Hans Loeffler(2), opened the door behind Hogan. Felsenthal shoved him into the building.

This time Hogan did trip; he landed heavily on the stained linoleum floor. _OW!_ He tried to rise; he couldn't. Felsenthal had put his big booted foot on Hogan's back and pressed him down to the dirty floor. This time, Hogan lay there. With furtive eyes, he glanced around the large semi-circular entrance hall. It looked like any open office space with four or five desks and attendant chairs cluttering it. Uniformed SS soldiers, including a couple of women, were seated around the room or walking back and forth, disappearing down the three corridors that led from the hall. No one bothered to look at him; prisoners were a common sight in this building.

A slim SS lieutenant looking like a typical Hitler Youth graduate walked over to the three men.

Felsenthal, still keeping his foot on Hogan's back, and Loeffler snapped to attention. "Heil Hitler!"

The lieutenant returned the salute and looked down at Hogan. "Who is this, Scharführer(3) Felsenthal?"

"An American spy, Obersturmführer Koch!"

"I am not a spy; I am a pilot!" Hogan shouted.

"You speak German," Koch said slowly, looking down at him.

" _Ja_ , and I have some really important information for someone who has the rank and the sense to see it!"

"Quiet!" Loeffler ordered, and for good measure kicked Hogan in the side.

"Look," Hogan said, a note of real desperation creeping into his voice. "This is really, really important stuff. You'll see." He looked up at Koch. "Really important."

Koch gestured.

Hogan felt the boot leave his back.

"Get up," Koch ordered.

Hogan, moving carefully — that kick had hurt — got off the floor and faced Koch. He tried a faint smile.

Koch stared at him. "Bring him," he ordered.

Hogan mentally relaxed. Prematurely. Felsenthal began the pushing and shoving again. This time, Hogan didn't complain. He was surrounded by at least a dozen SS and he didn't want to tick any of them off.

Koch went down the middle corridor and entered the first door on the left. The young SS officer sat behind a desk and gestured to the two men behind Hogan to come in as well.

"Well?" Koch demanded.

Hogan smiled thinly. "Not on your life. You're not important enough."

Koch stared at him in disbelief and opened his mouth.

Hogan didn't give him a chance to speak. "I have some really important information for you guys," he said again. "Important not only to this office or Leipzig, but to Germany as well. And I am not about to hand it over to a useless lieutenant."

"To a — " Koch stood up, red blotchy circles showing on his cheeks, his knuckles on the desk. "Do you know who I am?" he shouted.

"Yeah," Hogan said with a slow drawl, "you are a nobody lieutenant with zero authority."

"I could have you shot for what you just said!"

"Yeah, you could." Hogan, to Koch's surprise, sat down in the chair in front of the desk. "But you won't." Hogan grinned defiantly. "Now, why don't you take me to someone with real authority? What I have will help you as well as these two." He jerked his thumb at Felsenthal and Loeffler.

Koch looked at the two men behind Hogan and sat down. "Where did you find him?"

Felsenthal looked almost sheepish. "We did not find him, Herr Obersturmführer. While we were on patrol, we saw him standing beside a vehicle, a Russian vehicle, trying to get it started. When he saw us, he walked over and said he had important information to tell us."

"That is when we decided to bring him here," Loeffler added, "instead of headquarters. Based on the hints we 'persuaded' him to give us, we thought that Berlin may want to talk to him."

"Berlin? You mean Sturmbannführer Haas?"

" _Jawohl_ , Herr Obersturmführer."

"The Sturmbannführer is interrogating our special prisoner," Koch said with seeming disinterest, picking up a pencil and staring at it.

" _Jawohl_ , Herr Obersturmführer," Felsenthal said respectfully and firmly. "But he is a special interrogator from Berlin and is the highest ranking officer here. This _Hund_ was in a Russian vehicle. And," he pulled a packet from his coat, "the prisoner had this with him. It is in Russian."

"Russian!"

Hogan could see the panic behind the young officer's eyes. And the fear. And the decision.

Koch stood abruptly. "Bring him."

Felsenthal put the packet back into his coat as Loeffler grabbed Hogan's left arm and yanked him to his feet. Koch left the room, and Hogan followed him calmly. Or would have if he was allowed to; Loeffler started with the pushing and shoving again.

Hogan sighed inwardly. _These guys are enjoying this far too much. Cleopatra was right; my guys would never have gotten away with this._

One push sent him into the right wall, into a small window. Hogan was surprised to see an inner courtyard. And in the courtyard . . . Hogan's eyes widened in shock and a shuddering chill shook him. Hanging with wires around their necks instead of rope were three men, one in an SS uniform, the other two Wehrmacht. Hanging . . .

Loeffler shoved him away from the window. Stumbling, Hogan was led to the end of the corridor to a stairwell. Fortunately for him, Loeffler decided to let him walk down the stairs, holding onto the railing awkwardly with his cuffed hands. As it was, he still slipped down a couple of steps before he could grab hold of the handrail. They went down in semi-darkness, down three levels to a dim subbasement.

Koch opened the door to a hallway that ran horizontally. There were three corridors off of it. Koch took the middle corridor and opened a door on the left. An abrupt gesture. "Take him inside and watch him closely," he ordered Felsenthal and Loeffler.

The door closed behind Hogan as Koch headed straight down the corridor.

Hogan opened his mouth. Felsenthal shook his head in warning and gestured to the chair behind the table. Silently, Hogan sat down and waited; Felsenthal and Loeffler stood beside the door, looking to all the world as typical, emotionless SS. Hogan stared at the door in front of him. For the first time since he entered the building, a tight knot of fear twisted his belly. For the first time, he wondered if he was going to get out of here alive. If any of them were going to get out of here alive.

...

* * *

...

Obersturmführer Adolf Koch heard the scream as the door opened to his knock. He gulped audibly. Despite the uniform he wore, he didn't . . . he wasn't a torturer. And he really didn't want to be here. But if the American did have something important . . .

He straightened with resolve and stepped inside the cell. There were three men in the cell in addition to the prisoner — Haas, SS Private Unger at the console and SS Private Hertz, who had opened the door. Koch tried to ignore the screams from the tormented man on the rack-like platform. He kept his eyes firmly on Sturmbannführer Haas as he walked over.

Haas looked at him with a scowl, annoyed at the interruption. " _Was ist los_?"

" _Sich entschuldigen lassen, Herr Sturmbannführer_ Haas."

" _Was_?"

" _Entschuldigen, bitte_. But there is an American prisoner, a pilot, who would like to see you."

Haas turned back to his prisoner. "I have no interest in American pilots."

"I know, Herr Sturmbannführer. But he has information about the Russians," Koch said in a quivering voice as another scream was torn from the man on the rack.

"Russians? Stop." he ordered the man at the control console. Haas turned to Koch. "What about the Russians?"

"He . . . he refuses to tell me anything, Herr Sturmbannführer. He wishes to talk to someone in charge."

"Oh, he does, does he? And you believe him?"

" _Nein, mein Herr_. But he was found with Russian papers and he was driving a Russian vehicle. He may know something."

Haas snorted with disbelief. "A deserter most likely, thinking he has something important. I do not like deserters, Koch. I do not like them at all. I have seen a few who were pilots, and all of them were useless and greedy."

"I . . . I agree, Herr Sturmbannführer. But I have no authority . . . "

Haas snorted again. "All right, Koch. On the very slight chance that he does have something, I will see him." He turned to Unger. "Continue. I will be back shortly."

" _Jawohl_ , Herr Sturmbannführer," Unger said expressionlessly.

Another scream sounded as Koch and Haas left the cell.

Hertz stood in front of the door, one hand lightly against it, and locked the door. The cell was now secure from unexpected visitors. He looked at Unger operating the console and nodded.

With an inward sigh of relief, Unger reduced the current's level to its lowest setting.

The exhausted pain-ridden man on the rack looked at him with surprised tear-filled eyes.

Unger looked at him and intoned impassively, "'To be or not to be,'" in English. Then in German, "Forgive me, Herr Stage, for what I have done and will have to do."

The Stage closed his eyes in silent thanks. One of Hamlet's men, giving him a brief respite.

...

* * *

...

Hogan looked up as the door opened. Young Koch entered first and stepped aside. Behind him was a Sturmbannführer impeccably dressed — _what was it with these SS guys and their perfect tailoring?_ — a couple of inches shorter than Hogan with a stern chiseled face. He also carried a riding crop in his left hand. _Figures_.

Hogan smiled his trademark smile. "Now that's more like it."

Haas moved and moved fast. He was at the table before Hogan realized what he was going to do. Hogan found himself jumping back out of the way as Haas grabbed the edge of the table, sending it banging into the floor. And then he was in Hogan's face, grabbing his jacket.

"What the hell?!" Hogan tried to struggle against Haas's strangling hold.

Haas tightened his grip on Hogan's jacket and he backhanded Hogan. Hogan found himself on the floor, his cuffed hands stinging as he lifted them trying to protect his face from the riding crop.

Haas stood up and stepped back from the fallen man. He eyed Hogan as if he were a specimen on a slide and ordered Felsenthal and Loeffler to pick up the table and put it back in place.

Hogan stayed on the floor, looking up at the table as Haas sat down behind it. Haas gestured and Hogan was pulled up and held against the wall by Loeffler.

"He had a packet?" Haas said.

" _Jawohl_ , Herr Sturmbannführer," Felsenthal said evenly and placed the packet on the table.

Haas undid the clasp and took the pages from it. He glanced at the sheets before him. Russian.

Hogan took a deep breath. "There is a German translation."

Haas looked over the pages, passing over the German sheets as quickly as the Russian ones. Finished, he pushed them to the side and stared at Hogan.

Hogan found himself sweating. Haas was looking at him without expression. None at all. Whatever had prompted his initial attack had disappeared . . . if anything had prompted it. Violence just for the sake of violence? Cleopatra had said they didn't know what made Haas tick. Hogan didn't have a clue either. And that made Haas doubly dangerous. _What the hell is he waiting for? Is he just going to stare at me?_

Hogan took another breath and tried for a smile. "You don't trust me." He kept his eyes on Haas, looking for any clue as to what Haas was thinking. "I don't blame you. But I'm on your side."

To Hogan's surprise, Haas laughed sharply. "Of course, you are."

"I came to you guys. Remember?" Hogan tried another smile, one of his best.

Haas leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "So I heard. Suppose you tell me your story, Mr. Deserter."

"First of all, I am not a deserter."

Haas's brow lifted.

"I was a pilot," Hogan said hurriedly, "on a reconnaissance flight when my gas gauge went crazy. I didn't know how much fuel I had, so I thought I'd better land somewhere friendly. I figured since the Russians were our allies, I could land behind their lines." Hogan laughed. "That was a joke."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it turns out the Russians really don't like Americans. They were going to lock me up somewhere further east. Well, hell, I would have been better off landing in Germany! So, as soon as I got the chance, I hit the poor slob guarding me and got out of there as fast as I could."

"That doesn't explain these." Haas swept the sheets in front of him.

"I'm getting there!" He saw Haas's eyes narrow. Hogan changed his tone to one more plaintive. "I started heading west, away from them. And I got picked up by a German general who had defected to the Russians." Haas's brows went up. "No kidding! A German. I was a bit confused at that point. Didn't have a clue what to do. The general's staff was a bunch of Russian losers, didn't have the brains of a . . . of a . . . dog. So, I told the general some crazy story about how I got there and begged him to take me to a safe place."

"And he did?"

 _Uh, oh. I'm losing him. "_ No, he didn't. He decided to lock me up."

"And you escaped again."

Hogan looked hurt. "You don't believe me!"

Haas stood. "Not one word." He turned away. "Kill him."

"NOW, WAIT A MINUTE!" Hogan didn't have to fake the panic in his voice; it was very real. Cleopatra was right; his less than brilliant plan wasn't going to work.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and his voice. Everything depended on the next words out of his mouth. "Okay. Okay, you win," he said in a flat voice. "Yeah, that wasn't what happened. But those plans are real, and if you'd bother looking at the German translation, you'll see that the Russians are planning an attack on this area."

Haas turned back to him. "Are they?"

Hogan stared coolly at him. "Yes, they are." He took a tentative step away from the wall; Loeffler let him take it.

"I was a pilot, and, yeah, I did have a problem with the plane. I picked the wrong plane to steal." He shrugged. "I was hoping to get to a safe spot. Instead, I found myself behind Soviet lines. Pigs. Every single one of them. They were going to lock me up." A grim look on his face. "I made sure they didn't."

"You killed them."

Hogan shrugged again. "Wasn't that hard; there were only a couple of them." He stared at Haas. "Look, I grew up in a bad neighborhood during Prohibition. You know what that was? Gangs with machine guns running whiskey past the police so that rich idiots could drink themselves silly. After Prohibition ended, the gangs and the guns stayed. If you wanted to be anybody in my neighborhood, you were part of a gang. And I was."

For the first time, Haas sounded interested. "But you are a pilot."

Hogan laughed. "In case you haven't noticed, there is a war on. I got drafted. Didn't want to walk through mud, so I figured I'd try flying. Turned out, I've got a talent for it." He looked at Haas. "I've just been biding my time, waiting for a chance to make some real money and get out of the war. It finally came. But I was unlucky enough to pick the wrong plane to steal and the wrong place to fly to."

Haas smiled without humor. "So, you killed the swine who caught you."

"Yeah, and stole a car. Wasn't paying any attention to who owned it; I just wanted out of there. Turned out, when I got a breather, that it belonged to a general. A German one."

"Now, that is where I have a problem," Haas said with mock geniality. "Who is this general and what is he doing behind Russian lines?"

Hogan looked at him evenly, tried to fold his arms — not the easiest thing to do with handcuffed hands. "Give me a break, Herr Sturmbannführer. You're not stupid. You know that Germans have defected to the Russians. Just as Russians have defected to the Germans. It happens. As for his name, I didn't ask and didn't care."

"And these plans just happened to be in the car. What happened to the general?"

Hogan didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. "I already told you."

Haas sat back on his chair. "You killed him."

"Yes."

There was silence as Haas mulled over his words.

Hogan kept his eyes on Haas, kept his expression even, kept his posture relaxed. Did it work? Was Haas buying any of it?

Finally, Haas spoke, "If, and that is a very big if, if I believe any of this, how did you get here?"

"Do you have a map, a fairly detailed one?"

Haas snapped his fingers, and Koch quickly left the room. He was back in a minute. Koch put the map in front of Haas.

Hogan bent over the map. "Got a pencil?"

Koch hurriedly put it in front of him.

Haas kept his eyes on Hogan, not on the map.

Breathing a silent prayer of thanks to Cleopatra's foresight, Hogan awkwardly began labeling positions of the Soviet armies and the numbers of the various Soviet divisions east of Leipzig. Then he plotted his supposed route. "This way," Hogan said evenly. "This is the route I took. Drove nearly all night, staying away from troops in the area, and I was exhausted. When I figured I was far enough away from the Russian lines, I hid behind some trees and took a short nap. When I woke up, I was hungry. Decided to look around the car and see if there was anything to eat. Instead of food, I found those." He pointed at the papers. "Then I realized what I had."

"So, you speak Russian."

Hogan straightened up and laughed shortly. "Hell, no. I read the German translation."

"So you don't really know what these say."

Hogan shrugged. "I assume someone here can read Russian."

Haas turned his gaze on Koch. "Well?"

Koch went his dry lips, " _Nein_ , Herr Sturmbannführer. No one here knows Russian."

"Do you have a list of Russian interpreters?"

"I will see, Herr Sturmbannführer."

"Then go!"

Koch ran from the room.

Haas turned back to Hogan. "So," his voice was very soft now, "so, you bring us these plans. And now you want something from us."

" _Quid pro quo_ , Herr Sturmbannführer," Hogan said with a grin.

Haas smiled.

And a shiver went down Hogan's spine. He found himself wishing he was facing a live cobra across the table instead of Haas.

"Nothing much, Herr Sturmbannführer," Hogan said. "Just a way out of Leipzig. And a pass that will let me through German lines. I'll just make my way to Switzerland and get out of your hair."

Haas was still smiling. "It would be much easier to kill you."

"Yeah, it would," Hogan said in the same tone of voice. And he smiled. "My mama didn't raise no idiots, Herr Sturmbannführer. And my gang didn't tolerate idiots either." He leaned closer to Haas. "Those plans are real, as real as this table. But," Hogan lost his smile, "they're incomplete. If you look at the German translation, you'll see that there's some crucial information missing. You get that when you hand me that pass and the keys to a working car. And I've got to tell you, the missing pieces are really interesting."

Haas leaned back. "I see."

Koch came back in. "Herr Sturmbannführer, there were some Russian speakers at the University. But it is not known if they survived the bombings."

"Then find one who did!" Haas snapped.

Koch gulped. " _Jawohl_!" And hurriedly left the room.

"You just scared that kid out of a year of his life," Hogan said.

"Have I scared you?" Haas asked softly.

Hogan stared at him coldly. "No."

A slow smile. "We are going for a little walk."

Loeffler moved up behind Hogan while Haas gathered up the papers on the table and put them back into the packet. He held onto the packet.

Felsenthal opened the door for Haas, who stepped through it into the corridor. Haas began walking to the left. Felsenthal and Loeffler flanked Hogan, their eyes sweeping the corridor. Hogan also paid attention, trying to memorize where they were going.

The corridor from the stairwell had been clearly lit, but as they walked further down the corridor, the number of lights was sharply reduced. As they walked, Hogan became aware of sounds he hadn't noticed before. He wasn't sure what, but they seemed oddly familiar . . .

Then it clicked. They were in the lowest sublevel of the building, a utility sublevel, and behind the walls were generators, boilers, heating pipes, air ducts, sewer lines, water lines, and electrical lines, along with attendant passages. For the building? For the block? Maybe for several blocks? This whole level was a veritable and confusing maze.

They came to another horizontal corridor. Haas turned right. Here the lights were even further apart. The corridor dead-ended. Haas turned left. Even fewer lights now. Hogan caught glimpses of other corridors before Haas turned into a short corridor and stopped before a door. There was a bright light beside it.

Felsenthal knocked; the door opened. His eyes held a warning as he looked at Hogan.

A warning Hogan didn't need; he could hear the scream as the door opened. _Dear God, no!_

But it was. Hogan didn't need to fake the fear he felt. And truth be told, he wasn't sure for whom he was more afraid — himself or Klink. And he kept his eyes away from the rack.

Haas looked at his pale face. "Do you see that man?"

Haas forced Hogan to look at Klink as he continued to scream. And Hogan shuddered as he stared at the sweaty, suffering face of his friend.

"He, unlike you, is a man of conviction. He believes in his cause. So much so that he is willing to endure tremendous pain for it. In time, the torture will wear him down, will become unbearable. And then he will tell us what we want to know." Haas stepped closer. "I think, Herr Deserter, that you will tell me what I want to know very quickly."

Hogan turned back to Haas and forced down his anger, and his fear. He had to sell this to spare Klink. And himself. "Yeah, I probably will talk. I can talk all night long if you want me to. But I know something you don't. I know what's really in those missing pages."

Another cry of pain from Klink.

Hogan's voice shook for a moment. "I know the timetable for those plans. And I can lie through my teeth and keep on lying while you check on every lead I give you until the Russians show up. It would be a lot easier for all of us if you just give me what I want." Hogan's smile didn't reach his eyes.

Then his eyes, in fact everyone's eyes, went to the man on the rack. The last scream had ended abruptly.

And Hogan stopped breathing, stopped thinking. He was swaying on his feet from the shock. _Dear God, NO! Please, no!_

Haas rounded on the private at the controls. "What happened?"

" _Entschuldigung_ , Herr Sturmbannführer. _Entschuldigung_!" Unger stammered. "I accidentally shifted the level to a higher setting."

Hertz was at the rack, his fingers on the prisoner's neck. "He is alive, Herr Sturmbannführer, and unconscious. Should I release him?"

" _Nein_." Haas turned back to Hogan. Unexpectedly, he grabbed Hogan's bound wrists and propelled him into the rack.

Hogan fell against it, holding onto it to keep from falling. He found himself shuddering again, horrified at Klink's appearance — pain and exhaustion still lined Klink's pale sweat-drenched face — sickened by what was going on, and absolutely terrified that Haas would order the men to put him on that thing.

"You think you can play games with me, Herr Deserter!" Haas was saying evenly.

It took every bit of courage Hogan had to turn around and face Haas.

"I am very good at playing games," Haas continued. "Games you will not enjoy." He looked at Felsenthal. "Take him to level 2. And teach this Hund a lesson he will not forget."

" _Jawohl_ , Herr Sturmbannführer!" Felsenthal saluted.

Hogan was dragged away from the rack and out of the room by Felsenthal and Loeffler. In the corridor, he began struggling. "I've got to — "

Felsenthal placed a beefy hand over Hogan's mouth, smothering his voice and stopping his breath. "I can carry you upstairs conscious or unconscious," he hissed. "The choice is yours. You cannot help him or yourself yet! _Verstanden_?"

Hogan nodded.

Felsenthal removed his hand, letting Hogan breathe again. "Go!" And for good measure, he pushed Hogan down the corridor.

"Boy, you guys play rough!" Hogan complained.

Behind him, the two guards exchanged glances; Hogan had no idea what rough meant.

An hour later, he did.

...

* * *

...

Robert Hogan found himself on the ground, lying against the side wall. The back of his skull ached horrendously; the last thing he remembered clearly was striking the wall with his head when Felsenthal hit him yet again. Since then, his brain had turned fuzzy. He tried to rub his neck and failed; his wrists were still handcuffed. His eyes opened slowly. And he started. There was a man, huge, imposing and kneeling over his prone body. It was Felsenthal.

Hogan groaned loudly and tried to move away from the beefy SS sergeant. And couldn't. There was no place to go.

"Stop!" Felsenthal hissed.

Hogan stopped moving. Was Felsenthal going to hit him again? _Oh, God, no!_ His body was already a mass of throbbing, aching muscles, muscles he didn't know he had!

"Stop!" Felsenthal hissed again. "I know it hurts, but stay still and listen!"

A loud hiss from the open bars startled Hogan, and to his painful surprise, Felsenthal slapped him hard enough to crack his head against the wall again. Seeing red, Hogan was dimly aware that there was another guard standing by the cell. The guard stopped for a moment to talk to Loeffler. Hogan couldn't hear what was said, but after a moment, the other guard turned and headed back down the corridor.

Felsenthal grabbed Hogan's jacket and pulled Hogan close to his face. " _Entschuldigen_ ," he whispered.

"The hell you are," Hogan managed to mumble. "What do you want?"

"I want you to listen very carefully." Felsenthal released him and to Hogan's surprise began fingering the inside of Hogan's jacket.

Hogan suddenly felt a weight in an inner pocket; his eyes snapped open to look closely at Felsenthal's face. Felsenthal was putting something inside Hogan's pants' pocket also.

"That is the key to the cuffs," Felsenthal whispered. He put what looked like a pen inside Hogan's shirt pocket. "That is magnesium," he whispered. "You can use it on the cell door when it is time. The pistol is small and deadly, but you do not have much ammunition. _Verstanden_?"

"Yeah," Hogan managed to say; his mouth felt as dry as sand.

"There is water in the corner and a bucket if you need them," Felsenthal continued. "Haas may be back later to talk to you."

Hogan felt numb. "He's still with the Stage."

"For now."

"Then I failed," Hogan mumbled.

" _Nein_ , you gave him some relief. Haas may be questioning you after he sees the Russian interpreter. If he does, I warn you, he will not be patient. It will be late and he will be tired. Do not annoy him; give him a little something to satisfy him so that he will not take you to that cell. _Verstanden_?"

Hogan nodded, and regretted it instantly as pain sliced through his skull.

"Do you remember the two guards with the Stage? Their faces?"

" _Ja_ ," Hogan said grimly, angrily.

" _Gut_. They are our men. Their names are Unger and Hertz."

Hogan looked at him in shock. "How could — "

"Even torturers cannot endure what they do for too long," Felsenthal continued relentlessly. "Haas relieves them every two hours. Those two will be staying in the building for the night, so they will assist with the rescues when it is time. There will be two others here later. They know you and will say, 'To be or not to be' in English as the recognition code. Do you understand?"

Hogan nodded, and winced at the headache.

"One more thing, Papa Bear." Felsenthal looked very grim and very sober. "The mission is to rescue the Stage and Hamlet."

A chill went through Hogan.

"You are expendable, as am I, as is every other man and woman on the teams. You will have to free yourself from the cell and try to make your way to the access points that Cleopatra and Richard identified. If the primary rescues have been accomplished, some of us may be able to help you. But . . . "

"I know," Hogan said in an even voice.

" _Gut_. Remember, the building and the access points will be destroyed when the mission is completed, so you must be away from here by then."

Hogan nodded, and winced.

Felsenthal stood, and said softly. " _Viel Glück_!" He walked out of the cell.

Loeffler with a nod at Hogan closed the cell door, and ominously locked it. The two SS men walked down the corridor.

Hogan, with a sigh of relief, let himself slide down to the floor. God, he hurt, but Felsenthal knew what he was doing. All the damage was superficial, designed to hurt, but not to injure. With some rest, he would be all right.

Hogan laid his aching head on his bound arms, and caught sight of his watch, a bit surprised that the guards hadn't taken it. Oh, that's right — Felsenthal and Loeffler were on _his_ side; and he needed the watch to tell how much time he had to rest, to wait. It was now, he squinted, past 2100. Night had fallen; the building should be settling down. The evening shift began at 1900, Cleopatra had said. They were still fresh and alert. Which was why the plans called for the rescue to begin at 0500 tomorrow morning — before the day shift started and the night shift was tired and bored. Which also meant that he was stuck in this cell for roughly seven hours.

Seven hours. Well, during that time, if Felsenthal was right, Haas would have gotten a Russian interpreter to read the plans he'd been given. Which meant that Haas would know that the plans weren't complete. Which meant that Haas could be coming here to talk to him. Or, Hogan had to face it, Haas could order him taken to that cell.

An involuntary shudder shook him. Haas was unpredictably violent. Did that mean he, like Hochstetter, reveled in torturing prisoners? Haas seemed, based on what he had said, to admire the Stage's convictions on an intellectual level. He saw Hogan as a base opportunist, and he didn't like that. But he was still torturing the Stage and not Hogan. That was good from Hogan's point of view. But what did it mean for the Stage and the rescue?

Hogan was getting a worse headache than he already had, over-thinking everything, including Haas. Haas wanted what was inside the Stage's head. He wanted the Stage's network. And to Haas's way of thinking, the way to get it was to torture the man.

But Haas now had another problem — the supposed Soviet invasion of Leipzig. And that information was in the missing parts of the plan Hogan had secreted. Haas had to be thinking what was the easiest and fastest way of getting that information. To Hogan's mind, the quickest way would be to give Hogan what he wanted. Haas had to know that very often torture elicited unreliable information. Hogan had hinted that the invasion was coming soon, Haas was aware of that. Haas's intimidation tactics, as well as the beating, would instill fear, but Haas also had to know that Hogan was right. Hogan would talk to save himself from torture, but it would take time to determine if the information he gave was accurate. Time Haas had to think he didn't have. That meant playing along with Hogan's demands, at least temporarily. Hogan really didn't think that Haas would let him go if he gave Haas the rest of the plans. Haas would probably pretend to do it, and then have him killed as he was trying to leave Leipzig. Or have him thrown into another cell — Haas didn't strike Hogan as being the type to keep a bargain with a prisoner.

But all of that was useless speculation. The rescue was coming at 0500, long before Haas would get his hands on those fake plans. All Hogan had to do was out-bluff Haas for a few hours. And that was something Hogan was very good at.

* * *

Endnotes

1 _Act Four_

2 Ibid

3 Sergeant


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

March 29, 1945

It was past midnight when the Stage was pulled off the rack and dropped to the stone floor.

Haas frowned as he looked at the pale dirt-and-sweat-streaked face. The Stage was far more stubborn than Haas had been prepared to believe. He was enduring torture that would have had other men begging for mercy long before.

He was pushing the Stage too hard, Haas realized; he would have to let up for now. Otherwise, he might end up killing his prisoner rather than breaking him. Well, there was time. He would let the Stage rest for a few hours. Let him think that the torture was over.

A yawn. He would rest as well. He was tired; the past two days had been exceedingly long — the surprising summons to see Schellenberg, the flight from Berlin, the fruitless questioning of Hamlet, the unexpected appearance of the Stage, the enhanced security arrangements to make certain he would not lose his important "guests" and then, the thus far unproductive questioning of the Stage. He had hardly slept or eaten since his interview with Schellenberg nearly two days ago. Then there was that nuisance appearance of the American and the necessity to have someone translate those so-called invasion plans. He had been forced to spend more time with the Russian translator than he had anticipated — the damn fool was terrified at being called to the SS building and was shaking so hard that the papers kept slipping from his fingers. And his stammering — it annoyed Haas so much that he nearly put Herr Professor Vogt on that rack. Haas nearly smiled at the thought. But the stammering fool did confirm one thing — the American hadn't lied. The plans were for a Soviet invasion of Leipzig. And as he heard the translation, Haas, cool, efficient, emotionless Haas, felt a fear he had not experienced since Leningrad. And that frightened him even more. So much so that he considered ending the torture of the Stage to start on the American. A thought that seemed very pleasant as, accompanied by Vogt, he watched the American sleep in the cell. But no, Vogt's translation indicated that there was still time. Let the deserter think that Haas would bargain with him; he could wait. Haas didn't like being manipulated, and that was what the American was doing. In a few hours, the arrogant American would find out just how much Haas didn't like him.

As for the Stage . . . he would be back on the rack soon enough, and unlike the sessions thus far, there would be no more respites from the rack for him. He would remain on the rack whether Haas was there or not. And when he was at his lowest strength, when he could physically take no more of the pain, the drugs would be introduced. Not even the great Stage would be able to long resist that combination.

"Pfeiffer," Haas said with another yawn, "secure the Stage for the night. And the cell."

" _Jawohl_ , Herr Sturmbannführer."

Haas yawned again as he left the cell for some much needed food and sleep.

Slowly, the Stage regained consciousness. Dimly, he heard the cell door close. He sensed someone kneeling beside him, then felt something around his right wrist.

"Herr Stage." A whispered voice next to his ear. Then, "'To be or not to be'" in English.

He tried to open his bloodshot, tearing eyes and failed; he was far too exhausted, still in too much pain, for even that simple task.

"Rest, Haas is gone," said the voice. "A watch, Herr Stage. 0500."

Something was placed around his left wrist, his sweater sleeve pulled down over it. And he could just feel a small piece of metal being pushed into his clenched fist. But his useless senses had no idea what it was. Nor did he hear the voice repeat, "Rest." His suffering body had had enough.

Pfeiffer rose; the Stage had passed out again. Pfeiffer had done what he could for now. He and Franke had been unable to help the Stage much during the last session. The time Haas had spent with the Russian translator was too short to give the tortured man much relief from the rack. At least now, he would be allowed to rest, and in a few hours, _Gott_ willing, he and Hamlet would be freed.

Pfeiffer extinguished all but one of the lanterns in the cell and left, locking the cell door behind him.

...

* * *

...

Hogan was drowsing in the cell, his head on his cuffed wrists when he became aware that someone was watching him. He moved his eyelids just enough to see through his lashes. An SS corporal was standing there in the semi-darkness staring at him. _What the hell does he want?_ Hogan forced himself to stay still. He didn't want to spook the guy or invite another beating.

Hogan heard footsteps approach. He lay still, though he felt his muscles tense slightly. _Stop it_ , he told himself. _I'm supposed to be asleep._

A great plan until something struck the bars soundly. He gave an involuntary jump and banged his head against the wall. And he heard a loud laugh from the second SS goon who had just appeared and struck the bars with his machine gun.

The first one also laughed and spoke. "I think you woke the _Hund_ up, Sauer."

"I like to see them jump, Franke," Sauer said gleefully. "Has the Sturmbannführer questioned him yet?"

" _Nein_. The Sturmbannführer has just finished with the Stage. This one will be questioned in the morning before Haas resumes with the Stage."

Hogan's insides went cold. _It didn't work; my grand idea didn't work._

Sauer grinned. "No doubt the Sturmbannführer was enjoying himself. You were at the controls?"

" _Ja_ , but Sturmbannführer Haas was gone part of the time, talking to a Russian translator."

"But the Stage still squealed, didn't he?"

" _Ja_ , like all the others. I volunteered for another shift with him later today."

Hogan's eyes opened fully and he stared at Franke with hatred.

"I also asked if I might be present when this one is questioned."

"Oh?"

"He is an Ami pilot. I despise the cowards; they think themselves safe in their killing machines."

"Your family was killed by them."

" _Ja_."

"Perhaps you can get your revenge on this one," Sauer said. And yawned loudly. "I am going upstairs to sleep. Are you coming?"

"Soon." Franke's eyes turned on Hogan. "I am thinking of the best way to make this one squeal."

"Enjoy!" With a grin, Sauer left.

Franke watched Sauer walk down the corridor, and turned back to Hogan when Sauer was out of sight. "Your eyes betray you, Papa Bear," he said softly.

Involuntary astonishment crossed Hogan's face.

"'To be or not to be'," Franke intoned in English, and continued in German. "You need to school your emotions more carefully. If Haas had been here or Sauer had been looking more closely, you would have revealed your true reason for being here." Franke glanced down the corridor. He walked over to stand by the bars, his back against the right side of the cell. Unobtrusively, his left hand reached into a deep pocket and pulled out a couple of boxes. "Take them," he hissed.

On his knees, Hogan scrambled to the bars.

"More ammunition," Franke said softly as Hogan awkwardly took the boxes. "Haas has ended his session with the Stage. Because of the Stage, more guards have been called from other areas and assigned irregular patrol patterns. It may make it harder for you to escape on your own. But be patient; the Stage will need time to recover from his ordeal, and it will take time for the guards to become bored and tired. The mission is on schedule, and the Stage has been told the time of the attack. Rest while you can; you will need to be at your best to survive this night. And remember there are six of us in SS uniforms who are on your side and know who you are."

"Thanks," Hogan murmured. Then, "That was just a story you gave Sauer, right? About your family?"

Franke was silent for a moment. " _Nein_ , Papa Bear. Your bombers did kill my family."

And he left Hogan staring after him.

...

* * *

...

The job had taken far longer than Kinch and Gustav had anticipated. And Gustav was more than apologetic.

"I am sorry, Herr James," he repeated again.

"Hey, look," Kinch said after Gustav's fifth apology. "I understand. With the bombings, the original lines were rerouted. It is not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

Gustav sighed. "I know. But my orders were to have you back at the estate by 0300 to get ready for the raid. It is now nearly 0200 and we are not finished."

"Don't worry about it; this is important to the mission. If I can't make it, the Stage will understand."

" _Gut_. I was worried that you would be too concerned about your Papa Bear to stay."

"Papa Bear knows plans have to change once in a while," Kinch said as he reattached yet another line.

Gustav gave a sigh of relief. "I am glad. Your Papa Bear is a brave man to do what he did. _Gott_ willing, he will be able to make it out on his own."

Kinch lowered his screwdriver and looked at Gustav who was painstakingly starting on another line. "Why should he have to make it out by himself?" Kinch asked in a toneless voice.

"The rescuers will be focused on the Stage and Hamlet," Gustav said. "Unless he is being held nearby, they may not be able to help him."

"Unless he's held . . . " Kinch's voice faded away. "Are you telling me that Papa Bear is inside the annex? As a prisoner?"

" _Ja_ , he volunteered." Gustav broke off as he saw Kinch's face. " _Entschuldigen_ , Herr James," he whispered. "I thought you knew."

Kinch turned away from the little man, his fist clenched tightly around the tool in his hand. _Hogan was inside . . . He volunteered . . . HE VOLUNTEERED! And he left without telling any of us!_ _HOW DARE . . . !_

 _You know damn well why, Ivan. So he doesn't have to listen to us whine and complain and try to do something stupid, like follow him._

Kinch slid down the concrete wall to the floor, the tool still in his hand, his knees bent.

"Herr James?" Gustav said, worry creasing his face. "Are you ill? Do you need assistance?"

Kinch managed to conjure up a tiny smile. "No, I'm fine," he lied. "I just need a few minutes."

 _No, I'm not fine! I feel like kicking his officer ass. What the HELL does he think he's doing?_

 _He's trying to give the Stage a break._ Kinch caught his breath tightly. _He's trying to give his friend a break. And God knows what harebrained scheme he came up with to get Haas away from Klink!_

 _But it had to have Cleopatra's approval, didn't it?_

 _Maybe he managed it alone?_

 _Hardly. Hogan wasn't armed, and he'd need to hitch a ride to town. Getting a weapon and a car wouldn't have been easy, even for Hogan. They'd learned the hard way that they couldn't slip away from the estate without alerting Cleopatra or Richard, not with Richard's goons around._

 _So, she had to know about it. Right?_

 _Well, she wouldn't approve anything crazy._

 _She might to save Klink. She didn't know Hogan, but she clearly knew Klink. Did she love him? Oh, God, if she did . . . Hogan was expendable. Just one of her foot soldiers._

 _I've got to get out of here._ He pushed himself off the floor and started for the door. _The hell with this! I've got to get to the others and . . ._

 _And blow the mission. Jeopardize all their plans. Kill who knows how many people. Hell, I don't even know where everyone is right now!_

 _My God! Is this what command means? Why the hell would anyone want the job?_

At the door, he turned suddenly and looked at the others in the room. Gustav, a nervous little man who should be safely at home fast asleep . . . A grim-faced Heinrich with grizzled hair and a machine gun; he had to be nearly seventy . . . _My God! Hans is just a kid!_ _A kid with another submachine gun — he shouldn't even know what a machine gun is!_ And the last one, Uwe, a little older than Hans but still years younger than Carter, Uwe, who didn't know a thing about telephone lines but was eager to do his part — Uwe was in this room surrounded by, Kinch's eyes swept the surroundings, thousands of lines linking thousands of phones, doing what he and Gustav told him.

"Herr James?" Gustav asked in a timid voice.

Kinch pushed away from the door. "I'm staying here. This is our job," he said brusquely. "And we need to do it right." He walked back to the still open panel and got to work.

 _God, I haven't said much to You lately. And me, a preacher's boy. But I'm asking, begging, You — keep them safe. Or if that's not possible, keep them alive!_

 _..._

* * *

 _..._

"What do you mean Papa Bear isn't here?" Newkirk demanded of the slim, elegant woman.

Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau were seated in front of an ugly wooden desk in a stark room filled with filing cabinets. Cleopatra was sitting behind the desk looking rested and relaxed despite the middle-of-the-night hour.

"Papa Bear is on his own mission to assist the Stage and Hamlet," she said calmly.

"Doing what?" LeBeau asked, suspicion clouding his voice.

A silent sigh, but she answered, "He had decided that we needed an inside man in the annex to take some of the pressure off the Stage. After some persuasive arguments on his part, I agreed."

"Wait a minute." Carter had a little trouble following her. "You mean he's creating a diversion inside the annex?"

"Perhaps. Whatever Papa Bear does inside the annex is up to him."

"So he went in as an SS guy," Carter said after a moment.

" _Nein_." Cleopatra's voice was surprisingly gentle. "He went in as an SS prisoner escorted by two of Hamlet's men."

LeBeau shot to his feet. "He's inside the annex as a prisoner! By himself! Without us!"

" _Ja_."

LeBeau sank down into the chair he'd just vacated. "Without us."

"He didn't trust us!" Newkirk said.

"He trusted you," Cleopatra said. "I did not."

The three men stared at her with shocked surprise.

Newkirk finally found his voice. "You didn't trust us. YOU DIDN'T TRUST US!" His voice rose with each word.

"No," she said. "And if you do not lower your voice, Richard will be here with his men."

"Just let him . . . !"

"Do you have a death wish, Herr Peter?" Cleopatra asked, quiet steel in her voice. "If Richard thinks you are a threat to our mission, at best, he will lock you in a place that you cannot escape — and do not think he cannot — at worst, he will kill you."

"But we're on his side!" Carter objected.

"There is only one side with Richard, and that is the side of the Stage. If he perceives any threat to the Stage, Richard is not above eliminating it, even if it means eliminating Allied soldiers." She looked at them evenly. "And you do not understand."

The door exploded open and Richard with two armed men stood there glaring at Hogan's men.

" _Guten Morgen_ , Richard," Cleopatra said in a tranquil voice.

His eyes took in the shocked faces of the three men seated before the desk. "Is there a problem, _meine Dame_?"

" _Nein_ , no problem," Cleopatra said with a faint smile. "We are on schedule?"

" _Ja_." His cold eyes never left Newkirk's face.

"Could you find Wolfgang for me, _bitte_? And Friedrich?"

Richard nodded. "You have a separate mission for them?"

"More like a parallel mission," she said serenely.

Hogan's men were surprised to see a faint smile on Richard's severe face. "You enjoy taxing me, _gnädige Frau_."

"Of course, my friend. It keeps both of us vigilant."

"That it does. I will send them to you."

"Oh, and Herr Baker as well. I believe he is in one of the sleeping rooms."

"As you wish." His eyes swept the three seated men. "I trust there will be no more disturbances from them."

"No," Carter answered to the surprise of Newkirk and LeBeau. "Everything's okay."

" _Gut_. I will send in the men." With a nod at Cleopatra, Richard and his men left, closing the door behind them.

"Carter, what the HELL — ?" Newkirk started.

"Will you just shut up, Peter," Carter said to Newkirk's surprise. "Before you get us into real trouble." He turned to Cleopatra. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean to cause any problems. But you see, we're kind of used to doing things without other people. And together. You know, as a team. All of us. Peter, Louis, Kinch, Rich, me. And Papa Bear. I mean, he's our boss. And we, we . . . care about him. And don't want to disappoint him."

"And he feels the same way," she said softly. "Which is why he left you here. I know you have been very successful in your home base. But this is not your home base. This is mine. The plan that Papa Bear devised could not include you. Despite the size of the city, the SS garrison here is small and they know each other. Hamlet's unmasking, his betrayal — Hamlet had a reputation as one of the most ruthless officers in the SS — has made them more distrustful of outsiders and each other. For three strangers to show up with an American prisoner is to invite disaster. And," she leaned forward, "tell me honestly, do you seriously believe you could pass for the SS men you have seen here? Do you seriously believe you could treat Papa Bear brutally? Not with false rough treatment, but with real violence?"

The three men looked at each other.

Newkirk dropped his eyes before her frank gaze. "No." And then lifted his eyes to hers. "No, I couldn't. None of us could."

"They're going to hurt Papa Bear," Carter said in a shocked voice.

"They already have." She looked at them evenly. "Just as the Stage's plan was to stop Hamlet's torture and save Hamlet's life by deliberately letting himself get caught, Papa Bear's plan was to take the pressure off the Stage, if he could."

"By giving himself up as a prisoner?" LeBeau said with disbelief.

"By giving Haas a compelling reason to focus on him."

"A reason you gave him," Newkirk accused.

" _Ja_ , I did. His plan has succeeded to a reasonable extent. When he was being questioned, the Stage was given a reprieve. While Haas was checking the information that Papa Bear presented, that gave the Stage another reprieve. Papa Bear received a painful but not damaging beating from one of Hamlet's men. He is now locked in a cell and safe. He has been given the means to escape and he knows our schedule. I expect him to cause as much trouble as he can inside the annex while the rest of us are doing what we planned."

There was a knock on the door.

" _Herein_!" Cleopatra called.

Wolfgang opened the door.

"Wolfgang." Cleopatra smiled at him. "Have you rested?"

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_."

" _Gut_. Friedrich, Herr Baker, welcome," she said to the two men behind Wolfgang. "Herr Andrew." Carter looked at her. "You have been most useful in preparing the numerous bombs we will use at the annex, the adjacent buildings, and streets. I would like you to join Friedrich," she nodded at the limping blond youth, "and Ute and their groups in placing the explosives and then setting them off."

Carter didn't look very happy. "You don't want me to help rescue Colonel . . . I mean Papa Bear. And the Stage."

"By planting the devices you will be helping Papa Bear and the Stage," she said gently. "We have more than enough people directly attacking the annex and going inside for the rescues. Your strength is explosives and when to set them off." She looked at his young and expressive face. "The Stage believes in using people where they are most useful, Herr Andrew. So do I. That is where you are needed."

Carter, a far too serious expression on his face, nodded and stood. "I won't let you or Papa Bear or the Stage down."

"I know. _Danke schön_ , my friend."

Carter looked at his teammates. "I guess I'll see you guys later."

The others nodded at him.

"Good luck, Andrew," Baker said softly.

"Thanks." Carter tried a smile and followed Friedrich into the hallway.

The door closed behind them as Cleopatra looked at the four men in the room.

"Herr Baker."

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_."

"I am very pleased with the message you had recorded earlier. Even as we speak, it is being broadcast on Leipzig's radio stations. Hopefully, the SS will act on it."

"I hope so too."

"You have also been exceedingly helpful to Ludwig. He tells me that you have already mastered the codes we use. And your own experience in working with Papa Bear was very helpful in distinguishing the false messages from true that are intercepted by our people. He is very grateful for your help, as am I."

" _Danke schön, meine Dame_ ," he murmured.

"So, Herr Baker, I now give you a choice. You may, if you wish, join your friends," her hand gestured to Newkirk and LeBeau, "in the attack on the annex. Or," she leaned a little closer, "you may help Ludwig keep track of all of our groups. Also, you can help with the continuing surveillance of the SS channels. As you know, Ludwig will be forwarding incorrect orders to the SS to keep them away from the annex."

" _Meine Dame_ ," Baker said, a serious and conflicted expression on his face as he considered her words, "from what I know of your operation, Ludwig can't do the monitoring alone. Will someone else be helping him?"

" _Ja_. But she is younger and not as experienced as you and Ludwig."

"Then," Baker stood, "I guess I would be more useful helping Ludwig than at the annex."

Cleopatra smiled faintly. " _Danke schön_ , Herr Baker. I know that you very much want to help rescue the Stage and Papa Bear. Do you remember how to get back to the silo?" Baker nodded. "Ludwig is already there. _Viel_ _Glück_!"

Baker looked at Newkirk and LeBeau. "I'll see you guys when it's over. Right?"

"Right!" Newkirk said firmly.

Baker nodded and left the room.

"And that leaves you two," Cleopatra said as Wolfgang sat in Baker's vacated chair.

" _Bitte_ ," Newkirk interrupted, "where is Kinch, I mean James?"

"Herr James is still at the central telephone substation. His task is taking longer than we had anticipated. He will remain there, manning the telephones, so to speak."

LeBeau smiled faintly. "He will probably send the SS to Berlin!"

Cleopatra nodded with an amused smile. "That would be extremely helpful to us. Wolfgang."

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_."

"I am assigning Herr Peter and Herr Louis to your group with this stipulation. _After_ you are assured of the Stage's rescue, they may, if they wish, leave you to look for Papa Bear. Is this acceptable to you?

Wolfgang looked at the diminutive Frenchman and the taller Englishman, and nodded. " _Jawohl_."

Cleopatra then looked at Newkirk and LeBeau. "And is that acceptable to you _, meine Herren_?"

"Just to make certain we understand each other," Newkirk said, "we stay with Wolfgang's group until we see the Stage. Then we can take off to find Colonel, I mean, Papa Bear?

" _Ja_."

Newkirk took a deep breath. "I won't say I'm happy about it . . . but," his eyes met hers, "we accept."

" _Gut_." Cleopatra stood. She looked at her watch. "You leave in twenty-five minutes. Follow me, _bitte_."

The three men joined her as she left the room.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

March 29, 1945

The pain woke him. He was lying on his side, his back against the wall. His now burning back.

The Stage rolled over onto his stomach, gasping as he did so. His eyes opened, more awareness in them than before. It was still night, he knew. Though . . .

He heard someone fiddling with the lock. He froze, a tight knot of fear in his stomach.

The sound stopped and no one came inside.

Incredibly, he smiled. He was being allowed to rest and . . .

He turned his head toward his right wrist. He was chained to the wall; he hadn't even noticed. How could he not . . . ?

Enough. He moved cautiously, slowly stretching his aching limbs.

His left hand, there was something under his fingers. Slowly, he unclenched his fist — a small key.

It hadn't been a dream. He had heard, "'To be or not to be'" and . . .

He shook his head and winced. There was something else; he tried to remember . . . 0500, that was it.

Full wakefulness flooded his mind as he remembered the last session. Hamlet's men had been in the cell, had given him a brief respite from the pain whenever Haas had left the cell. Had given him the key to the manacle on his wrist and the time of the attack, and, he realized, placed a watch on his left wrist.

Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, he slowly, cautiously pushed himself up. And nearly cried out. His back was burning from the lashes he had endured and the hours spent lying on that infernal rack. With a groan, he sat against the wall, his eyes closed, willing the pain away. Slowly, it ebbed a little.

Still moving carefully, he opened his eyes and unlocked the chain on his wrist. The shackle dropped to the ground. One task done.

His mouth was parched; he looked around the darkened cell. There, just a couple of feet away was the water jug. He reached for it. Again that ripping pain. But despite it, he picked up the jug. His fingers were shaking as he lifted the jug with both hands, shaking so much that he spilled some of the water on his sweater. A second try. Despite its tepidness and none too clean state, the water eased the dryness of his sore throat.

Another drink and he leaned against the wall with a shoulder, still holding the jug. The water had given him a little more strength. His eyes found the stale bread. It would take more energy than he had at the moment to chew it. Instead, he took another drink.

 _Think_. _Think_. He rubbed his bloodshot, watery eyes. _Think_.

 _The watch_. He focused his still blurry vision on the watch face. It was night, late night, a squint at the watch again. 0320. And the attack was planned for 0500, roughly an hour before sunrise. The night watch will be tired and the next watch would still be asleep. Few would be at their best. And Haas was letting him rest. He knew it wasn't out of kindness. Haas had realized he was pushing his victim too hard. So, let him rest. And after he had recovered his strength, begin the torture again.

Well, Haas was going to be in for a surprise. He had time now. Time he could put to good use.

Slowly, heedful of his back, he put the jug down. First, he got to his knees, wincing as he did so. Then, using the wall for support, he made it to his feet. He was gasping as he straightened; he couldn't decide which hurt more — his nerves over-stimulated by the electric shocks or his burning back. He stayed still, willing the pain away. Willing . . .

He wasn't ready to walk across the floor, but he could use the wall as support. One hand against the wall, he slowly made his way to the adjoining wall, ignoring the pain.

The cell door was now only a couple of meters from him. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood still. A deep breath and slowly, unsteadily he walked to the door.

He made it! His head lay against the cool metal. Such a simple feat, yet now it was an immense accomplishment. He allowed himself to rest there for a minute. More.

Enough.

He took another deep breath and the zipper slid down the front of his sweater, baring his chest. His fingers fumbled with the seam of the zipper. Haas had been too eager, too sure of himself. While he had taken the knapsack, Haas had not thoroughly searched his prisoner, had not bothered to check his clothing too carefully. From various places in his clothes, the Stage pulled certain objects, objects that when assembled would allow him to escape from this cell.

Now that he had a goal, his strength, his endurance, were returning. The pain from his back was trying but now it was bearable. It would have to be. He had to get out of this cell and find Karl, so they could anticipate the rescue attempt.

He was finished. A smile at the object in his hand. The cell would no longer be his prison. But first some practical matters to attend to. He walked almost steadily back to his place by the wall and sat. The bread. A few bites, he needed all of his strength now. More water. Then the slop bucket. Another drink of water.

After a brief rest, he stood. The control learned through the years took possession of him. Now, there was no emotion, no trace of pain on his face as the Stage walked back to the door.

It did not take him long to open the lock. S _loppy, Haas. You should have been more careful._

The door opened a crack. A glance down the corridor, first one direction, then the other. It was empty. He listened closely. In the distance, he could hear footsteps going away from him. He continued to listen. Someone was walking in the hallway some twenty meters away from his cell. He counted the seconds the guard walked each direction. And nodded. The guard would be no problem.

He stepped outside his cell; a faint light was just outside the door. But a few steps away, there were shadows he could slip into. The mask they had conveniently left lying in the cell went on. It would serve to further hide him in the shadows.

Silently, he walked down the corridor, heading right. It was a dead end, but perhaps Karl was in the cell at this end. A door was opened. No one. An inward sigh. _No, it wasn't going to be that easy, was it?_

Back up the corridor. The one other door too held nothing.

The footsteps grew louder. He melted back into the shadows.

The guard crossed past the corridor without looking into it. An unseen smile. The guard was tired, bored, careless.

He waited the few moments until the guard crossed again and then moved in the opposite direction. He ducked into the adjoining corridor before the guard turned around. Down the even dimmer hall, he tried the doors. The cells were empty.

Then a chilling thought. What if they had already killed Karl? Was everything in vain?

The Stage turned back to the main corridor.

This time, it would be trickier. His timing had to be perfect, and his speed. He shut out his fatigue, his ever-present pain, concentrating solely on reaching his goal. The guard crossed the corridor, turned and back again.

He moved to the opposite, more lit corridor. A sigh of relief as he reached it.

There were fewer shadows here. The guard thus far had exhibited little interest in this corridor. He prayed that the guard would continue his indifference.

He tested the doors. One was locked. The object slipped out and into the lock. The door opened slowly and he slipped inside.

Karl Weiss, alias Hamlet, was there, sleeping or dead, on the floor.

He walked over and knelt beside his pale friend. "Hamlet," he whispered.

Hamlet's puffy, red eyes opened slowly. A gasp of incredulous astonishment. "Stage!"

He smiled and helped Hamlet sit up. "I am glad you are still alive."

"I am to be sent to Flossenberg at dawn," Hamlet mumbled. Then he said urgently, "You must leave! Now!"

"Not without you."

"I am already a dead man," Hamlet said. "You must go!"

"Not without you," he repeated and helped Hamlet to his feet, picking up Hamlet's jacket as well. "Put this on," he ordered.

Hamlet's astonished eyes stayed on the Stage as he walked back to the door and opened it slightly. He put on the dirty jacket. "You are mad!"

A thin smile. "So I have been told, more than once."

Hamlet managed a faint smile. "Now?"

"We try to get out of here."

"This will never work."

"What does a dead man have to lose?"

"Nothing," Hamlet whispered.

"Can you walk over here?"

Grim determination on his face. " _Ja_. They have not come near me since they caught you."

"That is what I was hoping for." The Stage turned back to the door.

Respect and more was in Hamlet's eyes as he walked over to the Stage. "Now what?"

"The raid will begin," he looked at the watch, "shortly. To make it easier for them, we try to get out of here. There is a guard in the main corridor. I will take care of him. Stay here until I do."

Hamlet nodded and the Stage slipped out of the door.

Back in the corridor, he waited until the guard made a circuit. Then, as the guard walked past him again, he moved swiftly, silently. It was over in moments, the unconscious guard slipping to the floor. Then Hamlet was beside him, helping him drag the guard into the cell. The door was locked; that would buy them time.

In the corridor, the guard's pistol was in the Stage's hand; Hamlet held the rifle. So far, it had been quiet. And easy. He knew it was only temporary.

"Ready?" the Stage asked.

Hamlet nodded grimly.

A smile. "Let's go."

...

* * *

...

Robert Hogan stared at his watch. 0450. Nearly time. Just a few minutes. Just . . . And he couldn't stand it any longer. Time to get out of this cell and look for Klink.

His fingers fumbled in his pants' pocket, feeling for the key to his cuffs. There . . .

It was awkward, but he managed to unlock the cuffs around his wrists. A silent sigh. The cuffs dropped to the ground. Better, much better. He rubbed his sore wrists and sat up straighter.

A groan. His muscles were stiff and aching from the beating, and his head still ached! _Damn Felsenthal! If I get him alone, I'm going to . . ._

A rueful smile. Going to what? Felsenthal was some four inches taller and some forty pounds heavier, and, Hogan had to admit reluctantly, more heavily muscled than he was. In a fair fight, he'd still handle Hogan easily. Maybe he could just throw Felsenthal into that cell in Cleopatra's basement for a couple of days. Rank had to have some privileges!

Then a sigh. Assuming Cleopatra would go along with it. _Face it, I'd be outvoted._ Another sigh. _Rightfully so. After all, it was MY stupid idea to be here!_

He looked around and slowly crawled to the bars. The corridor was in semi-darkness. His cell was at the end of the corridor; the cell across from him was empty. And, he tried to remember the walk down the corridor hours ago, he didn't remember seeing anyone in any of the half dozen cells he'd been marched by. Nor had he heard any sounds anywhere. Was he the only prisoner on this level? It would make his life easier if he were.

Of course, he didn't have to check the other corridors for prisoners. He could just . . .

 _Yeah, right_.

A glance at his watch. It was time to get going.

...

* * *

...

Wolfgang, Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau, backed up by a couple of dozen others had crept silently through the basement tunnel in the western building adjacent to the SS annex. Now, they were in position. In a similar tunnel on the other side of the SS annex, Franke and Pfeiffer led another group of attackers; their mission was to find Hamlet. On the roofs of the buildings adjacent to the annex and across from it were more attackers who would keep the streets clear of any SS who appeared.

Carter wiped the sweat out of his eyes and glanced at his watch. His task was to open up a hole in the basement of the annex. Ute was waiting to do the same in the eastern building. Carter would then leave and hurry to his position in the cross street and when it was time, he would blow up the streets around the annex to keep the SS from following them and by using the bombs already in the annex and the ones carried by the invaders, would trigger the massive explosion needed to take down the annex.

Two minutes, Carter looked at his watch again. It was the longest two minutes of his life. Then it was time; he pressed the plunger.

There was a muffled explosion and a hole appeared in the basement wall. It took a couple of minutes for the attackers to clear away the mess.

"Good luck!" Carter said and scurried away to his outside position.

From the other side, an SS soldier called, "'To be or not to be'!"

Wolfgang was the first to enter. "Loeffler!"

Loeffler nodded a greeting. "Quiet, _bitte_! Behind the walls are SS bunks."

"It was supposed to be empty!" Wolfgang whispered with some apprehension.

"Haas ordered more men. The doors are blocked, but they will not stay that way, so, _bitte_ , stay as silent as possible."

Loeffler led the way to a darkened corridor. "From this hall, go that way. Past the first corridor, then to the middle one. Do not use the far right stairwell; it leads to the utility tunnels. You must go down to the last level; that is where Hamlet and the Stage are held. Remember, not the far right stairwell."

"The others?" A man asked.

"They are using another access to the lower levels."

LeBeau and Newkirk were the last through the hole.

"What did he say?" LeBeau asked.

"He said the far right stairwell," Newkirk said. "Come on. It's dark in here!"

From both sides of the building, the Underground units moved swiftly, silently down the corridors. But all too soon, an alarm began to clamor throughout the building. And they heard shouts and too early gunfire. But none of it was yet directed at them; none of it sounded too close.

On they ran, past one corridor and toward another.

Newkirk and LeBeau were bringing up the rear. A small group of SS. LeBeau and Newkirk turned and fired. SS soldiers fell.

"Are you all right, Peter?" LeBeau asked.

Newkirk nodded, blinking some dust from the shot-up wall out of his eyes. "Yeah. You?"

" _Oui_."

They both held their weapons at the ready. Suddenly, it was eerily quiet, and they were alone.

"Come on," Newkirk said, moving down the dimly lit corridor. Past one hall, past another . . .

"He said the far right, didn't he?" Newkirk said.

"I think so."

In the distance, they could hear running boot steps.

"Go!" Newkirk whispered.

They kept running, past the second hallway. And stopped abruptly as the corridor dead-ended.

"What the — !" Newkirk yelled. "Where did they all go?"

"SHHHHHHH!"

"There's no damn — !"

"Turn around," LeBeau said with mild disgust.

Newkirk spun around. "Oh." He pulled on the handle. And started as the boots came closer.

"Come on!" LeBeau sprinted into the darkness.

Newkirk followed without looking and bumped into LeBeau. And grabbed hurriedly for him as LeBeau started to fall.

After a heart-stopping moment, Newkirk's hand holding his sweater, LeBeau straightened up.

"Where is everyone?" Newkirk said after a moment.

"I don't," LeBeau started and then stopped. He could just hear sounds from the other side of the door, including gunfire.

"They said down, didn't they?" Newkirk said, a faint quiver in his voice.

" _Oui_." LeBeau looked down. Far below, there was a faint light.

"Down."

Newkirk led the way, his weapon held ready.

"Didn't they say there were supposed to be several levels?" Newkirk asked after going down several meters.

" _Oui_ ," LeBeau said in a sour voice.

"I don't see any levels other than the one we used, up or down." Newkirk stopped abruptly. "We're in wrong damn stairwell!"

LeBeau gave a quick nod.

The two men looked at each other in the semi-darkness, suddenly realizing what a horrible position they were in.

"We don't have a choice," LeBeau said bleakly after a moment. "We have to go down. If that leads to the last level, we'll meet up with the others."

"And if we don't?" Newkirk asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

"We were ordered to find the Stage," LeBeau said in the same tone. "If . . . When we find him, we leave."

"And if we don't find him or Colonel Hogan . . . "

"We kill as many SS as we can before Andrew destroys the building," LeBeau finished.

"Killing us."

After a moment, a whispered, " _Oui_."

Newkirk managed a lopsided smile. " _Viva La France_! Right, Louis?"

"Long Live the King!" LeBeau said with feigned enthusiasm.

Their smiles faded, and with determined expressions, they continued down the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairwell was a metal door.

Newkirk cautiously tried it. Locked. "Keep an eye up, Louis," he said, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. From his pocket, he took a small case and from it, a small tool. In seconds, he had the door open. And quickly, quietly, he and LeBeau scooted inside.

"Bloody hell," Newkirk murmured, staring at the maze of pipes, air ducts and conduits. A low throbbing sounded in their ears, and an occasional gushing sound like water. Worse, there seemed to be more than one walkway.

"Now where?" LeBeau asked.

"Remember what Wolfgang said? The cells are at the back of the level. Let's just keep walking that way."

"We need another exit."

"Look, most basements like this have at least two ways in. There should be another one that way." Newkirk gestured. "At least, there are some lights that way."

"I hope you're right, Peter," LeBeau murmured.

"So do I!" he said to himself.

They walked slowly, senses alert for a few minutes.

LeBeau stopped abruptly. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? That throbbing is stopping up my ears!"

"Listen!"

"Someone's crying?" Newkirk said after a moment.

" _Oui_."

They walked a little further. Here was a stronger light.

"A woman?" LeBeau whispered.

Newkirk nodded, weapon ready to fire.

They walked even more cautiously until they came to a circle of light. To their astonishment, a woman and a young man were seated, chained to the sturdy pipes, but chained apart from each other.

The woman spotted them and screamed, " _Bitte_! _Bitte_! Don't kill my boy! _Bitte_!"

Newkirk and LeBeau stopped in appalled anger. The woman, maybe in her thirties, was crying, her eyes on the teenage boy who had been chained across from her. The boy seemed to be semi-conscious. But what appalled them the most was the sight of a dozen water bottles that surrounded the boy just out of his reach.

The woman cried out again. "My boy! _Bitte_!"

LeBeau went to her side, his voice low, soothing. "We will help your boy, _meine Dame_."

Newkirk was already kneeling beside the teenager, his lock-picking tools working on the chains.

" _Wasser_! _Wasser_!" the boy was mumbling.

LeBeau hurried over with the water as Newkirk quickly freed the woman. She scrambled to her son, crying as she held him close.

" _Nein_!" LeBeau took the bottle from her hand. "Little amounts or he will become ill."

She nodded in understanding and used the water to wet her son's face.

"Why are you here?" Newkirk asked, his eyes darting around the area for any surprises.

"We hid some deserters," she gulped. "Just boys like Hans. The SS thought we were part of the Resistance. I tried to tell them . . . I tried," she began sobbing. "They shot the boys and brought us here to question us. I tried . . . " She held her son close.

Newkirk and LeBeau stepped away to give them a little privacy.

"We have to get them out of here," Newkirk said in a low voice.

" _Oui_. But how?"

"Maybe she knows," Newkirk muttered.

LeBeau nodded and walked over to the woman crooning to her son. " _Meine Dame_ , do you know the way out?"

She looked at him blankly.

"When they come, do they come the way we came or another way?"

"They brought us that way." She gestured toward the far end, the way they were already heading. "From a corridor."

"Did they bring you down a staircase?" LeBeau asked.

" _Ja_." She gave her son more water.

"She knows the way out!" Newkirk crowed.

" _Oui_ ," LeBeau said.

"What's wrong, Louis?"

"We'll be taking them right into a battle," he said grimly.

"Yeah, we will." Newkirk turned to the woman. " _Meine Dame_ , do you know any other way out? Tunnels, a sewer, any other way?"

She looked at him with puffy, red eyes. " _Nein. Was ist los_?"

" _Meine Dame_ ," Newkirk said, "right now, there is fighting in the building."

"Commandos?" she asked.

"Uh, _ja_ , commandos."

" _Gut_! After what those _Hunde_ did to those poor boys, to my son . . . _Gut_!"

" _Madame_ ," LeBeau said, "we may die."

She nodded abruptly. "What do you think they would have done to my son, to me. Now, there is a chance."

" _Ja_ ," Newkirk said. "There is a chance." He slung his weapon over his shoulder. "Let me carry the boy until we get out of here. Okay?"

She nodded and stood.

"Louis, keep a sharp lookout," Newkirk said and lifted the boy in his arms. Then together, they headed toward the back.

...

* * *

...

Hogan crept down the dim corridor. He had gotten lucky; he'd run into only one guard. The gun in the guard's back, and an arm around his neck quickly knocked him out. And fortunately for him, the guard had the master key to the cells on this level, and a submachine gun. He dragged the unconscious guard into an empty cell, locked it and straightened with a wince. He started his walk down the remaining two corridors.

It didn't take him long to go down the corridors on this level and find prisoners, one in each corridor. He freed them quickly and gave the Wehrmacht lieutenant Blau the pistol that Felsenthal had given him. Hogan kept the machine gun. The second released prisoner turned out to be a young Jehovah's Witness, a pacifist named Schwab who had refused to work in one of the war factories.

Hogan moved his small command into the stairwell. That's when he heard the firing coming from the level below as well as the levels above.

 _Damn it! Now what?_ The Stage had been on the third sublevel and from the sounds, it appeared that there was a running battle down there. Hogan glanced back at Blau and Schwab. Blau was white-faced but determined, the gun in his hand ready, but Schwab was an unarmed kid. Hogan glanced quickly down the staircase. From the sounds, it appeared that the battle on the third level was getting closer. And God only knew who would get to the stairs first!

Hogan wanted nothing more than to go down there to see if they had the Stage and Hamlet. But what would the Stage do?

 _God, I've been around him too long!_ He couldn't drag Blau and Schwab down there. That meant going up. Not that it sounded too safe up there either, but that led to the way out. _Damn_.

He could hear bullets hitting the door on the lower level. That decided it!

"Up!" Hogan ordered.

Blau was first up the stairs, followed by Schwab. Hogan after a quick glance downstairs followed them.

They had reached the first sublevel, the level where the rescuers were to come from. But from the sounds of the gunfire, that exit may be out.

Two SS were the first through the door. Fortunately for all of them, one of them shouted in English, "'To be or not to be'"!

Blau found his arm pulled down by Hogan. "They're on our side!" Hogan yelled. Hogan recognized them as the men in the Stage's cell.

"Papa Bear!" The two men were aiming their weapons at Blau. "Who are they?" demanded one of the men.

Hogan, remembering that Unger had tortured the Stage, had difficulty talking to him civilly. "Former prisoners," he said curtly.

Unger nodded just as curtly. "This way is blocked. Too many guards. That leaves the main level or the roofs."

Hogan nodded again. "Can you take them?" He gestured at Blau and Schwab.

" _Ja_. We can take them out as our 'prisoners'." A suggestion that didn't sit well with Blau or Schwab.

Hogan managed a wan smile. "You can trust them," he told the others.

Hertz took Blau's gun. "I will be behind you," he said. "Follow Unger carefully. We will make for the roof exit."

"Where are the others?" Hogan asked.

"Most below," Hertz said. A door slammed below them and the firing increased. "Papa Bear, your ride will be at the front entrance. Go! There are enough down there. Hurry! _Viel Glück_."

Prodding Blau and Schwab, Hertz and Unger started climbing the stairs quickly.

Hogan watched for a moment. Then the battle below him burst into the stairwell.

Hogan didn't wait to see who was coming. He ran past the first sublevel, and past the ground floor, as he could hear firing on that level as well. He figured he might have a better chance from the second floor. Then he could try working his way down from the other side of the building. This side was far too hot for his comfort.

Hogan burst into the second floor hallway. Here, it was eerily quiet and here, it was oddly deserted.

He walked slowly, carefully, down the hallway, his machine gun ready. He was heading for the eastern section of the building. This part was almost a mirror image of the main floor — three corridors leading to the northern stair hall and to a large semicircular southern hall.

 _Damn! Is there another stairway to the main floor, the floor I need to be on?_ He didn't relish the idea of having to go back down that stairwell again. But he couldn't stay here either. _Damn! Wait a minute, that courtyard. Was there a way down from it? Where was it? Off the central hallway._

Hogan reversed his direction and went back to the central corridor. Damn, it was quiet. He walked slowly down the corridor, his weapon ready. There, the courtyard was there. He stopped at the window overlooking it and glanced down, half expecting to see the bodies again in the pre-dawn light. They were gone; he gave a sigh of relief. But, another glance around, he couldn't see a way off the floor. Maybe at the eastern end . . . ?

A sudden muffled whimper spun him around. It came from one of the offices opposite the window.

Hogan walked over to the door. Slowly, carefully, he turned the doorknob and stepped back, his weapon ready to fire. He kicked the door open, his gun ready to spray whoever was in the room.

A faint scream, no two faint screams sounded from the occupants of the room. One of them was a girl barely out of her teens. And the other was Koch. They were huddled on the floor behind the desk in the room, their faces white and filled with terror. Both of them expected Hogan to shoot them down.

Hogan lowered his weapon slightly, a humorless smile on his face. "You're in the wrong business, Koch."

Koch swallowed nervously and put a shaking arm around the now crying girl's shoulders.

"You both are." Hogan stepped into the room. "How do you get off this floor, Koch?" he asked roughly.

"T-t-the st-stairs," Koch said in a quivering voice. "I-in the b-back."

Hogan shook his head. "There's a battle down there."

"Past the y-yard. Old f-fire l-ladder."

Hogan walked over to him and yanked him to his feet. "Show me!"

The girl screamed. "You w-will k-kill . . . "

"I won't hurt your boyfriend if he behaves," Hogan said roughly.

" _B-Bruder_ ," she mumbled.

 _Oh, great_. "I won't hurt your brother if he behaves. _Verstanden_?"

Koch nodded.

"And you," he said to the girl, "stay here!"

Tearfully, she nodded.

"And if I were you two, I'd find a way out right now and another place to work before the Americans show up!"

Hogan pushed Koch out the door and closed it on the cringing girl.

Hogan, shoving, _a little payback, Robert?,_ Koch in front of him, headed back toward the northern end of the building, back toward the embattled stairwell. But Koch turned to the right, down an empty corridor to a dead-end with a door in it. He opened the door. Just steps inside was a ladder in a brick lined shaft. A fire exit. Hogan looked up and down. Not a sound in the shaft. Hogan smiled grimly and turned to Koch.

"Say good night, kid," he said in English and hit Koch with a swift upper cut. Koch folded to the floor.

Hogan closed the door quickly and fairly slid down the ladder to the ground floor. And slowly opened the door.

He stepped into the corridor. And all hell broke loose.

...

* * *

...

In the back at a door on their right, Newkirk put the boy down carefully; his mother held onto him. Newkirk unslung his weapon and cautiously opened the door. He needn't have bothered being quiet; there was a vicious battle going on somewhere. But he couldn't quite see anything in the dim light. The door was at an intersection. One way led straight ahead, the other went at right angles to it and ended in another door.

"Which way?" LeBeau asked.

"I — "

"We came from the right," the woman said. "Through that door; it was not locked. It goes to the stairs."

"Then that's the way we go," Newkirk said.

As he spoke, the battle appeared from the corridor in front of them. To his surprise and joy, it was Wolfgang and with him the Stage and, Newkirk presumed, Hamlet. Following them were nearly three dozen Resistance members firing at SS soldiers behind them. He wanted to laugh and cry and settled for an incoherent shout. Wolfgang and the Stage turned toward them; Wolfgang waved. And then shouted a warning as gunfire rang from the right corridor. Newkirk ducked back into the safety of the utility tunnels, as LeBeau dropped to his knees, half hidden by the door and began firing at the attackers coming toward them.

The Stage also dropped to his knees, the gun in his hand spitting, as did Hamlet's and the other rescuers. The half dozen attackers who came through the door were cut down, but there were still the attackers from behind. Pfeiffer, near the back, armed a couple of the potato masher grenades favored by the Germans and threw them. The attackers behind them either perished or dove for cover.

There was no time for words; more SS were sure to come. They had to keep moving or risk being trapped on that level. The rescued woman and her son were swept into the middle of the Resistance fighters. A couple of the fighters, following Pfeiffer's example, threw some grenades into the utility maze, adding to the chaos. Now, they had to keep moving, using flashlights up the staircase to the basement level, back to the holes they had blown. Later, few of them remembered much of those chaotic minutes — machine gun fire, grenades, noise and cries of wounded or dying men.

Eventually, they were sidetracked. Some of the guards had caught on, as their radios confirmed. The corridor used by Wolfgang and his group had been destroyed to keep the SS in the building.

"We will separate," the Stage ordered. "Hamlet and his men will try the other entrance. The rest of us will make for the main entrance."

"Agreed," Hamlet said in a weakening voice.

The Stage looked at him sharply. His friend's face was pale, his skin appeared to be clammy. "Perhaps — "

Hamlet pulled himself erect and his angry eyes bored into the Stage's. "Have I ever failed you?"

" _Nein_ , you have not," the Stage said softly. "Go with God."

Hamlet followed Pfeiffer toward the other corridor; over a dozen Resistance fighters went with them.

Franke tarried for a moment. "He will be safe, Herr Stage," he said fiercely. "On my life!"

The Stage nodded briefly. " _Viel Glück_."

Franke nodded and followed the others.

The Stage turned to Wolfgang and the others. "One question," he asked Newkirk, remembering a voice in the midst of his torture. "Was Papa Bear here as a prisoner?"

Newkirk nodded.

For an instant, anger flared in the Stage's eyes. Then it was gone, submerged into icy calmness, as he led the men toward a stairwell.

"Louis?" Newkirk said softly. "We can leave now. They've got the Stage. We can find Colonel, I mean, Papa Bear."

LeBeau nodded. Then felt a hand on his arm. One of Wolfgang's men whose name he didn't know had stopped him. The man had a walkie-talkie; he had just finished listening to it. "You are speaking of Papa Bear, _Ja_? He has escaped and has been told to head for the front entrance. That is our goal as well."

"You are sure?" LeBeau asked.

The man nodded.

"Okay then," Newkirk said. "I guess we stick together. Right, Louis?"

LeBeau nodded grimly as they followed the others toward the continuing gunfire.

...

* * *

...

Weiss's group had reached their original hole. But not without a fight. Pfeiffer sustained a wound to his leg and had to be helped along; another was bleeding from a shoulder wound. And Hamlet was growing weaker; he also had to be helped down the final corridor to the hole. And behind them at the last turn advancing quickly were their pursuers.

Hamlet had already been helped through the hole, then Pfeiffer and the others. Soon, only Franke and one other Resistance member were left.

Franke released another grenade down the corridor. "Are the others through?"

" _Ja_ ," answered the remaining man.

"Then go!"

"Franke . . . "

"GO!"

The man ran to the hole. Franke, after firing another burst at their pursuers, ran after him. At the hole, he stopped and turned. The enemy came around the corner. Seeing him, they shouted, "HALT!"

And Franke did. The others hadn't had time to get clear of the adjacent tunnel. Hadn't had time to close the entrance to their followers.

Franke slowly laid his weapon on the ground before him and raised a hand in surrender, his other hand behind his back.

"Franke!" It was Sauer. "TRAITOR!" He raised his rifle.

" _Nein_!" ordered the sergeant. "We will find out what he knows!"

The SS moved in on the unarmed man.

Franke faced them calmly. And smiled triumphantly. "Long live a free Germany!"

And the grenade Franke held behind his back exploded, bringing the walls and ceiling down on top of his SS captors, and burying the hole and tunnel to the annex.

...

* * *

...

Hogan ran down the corridor, firing behind him. He was unexpectedly pulled into a side room from behind. He turned to struggle with his attacker.

"Stop!" hissed a voice Hogan knew; it was Felsenthal.

Felsenthal was armed with a submachine gun. Pushing Hogan to the side of the door, he began firing into the hallway. After a moment, the return fire stopped. Felsenthal looked out and then ordered, " _Los_!"

Hogan followed him out of the room; Felsenthal pushed him ahead.

"The entrance is past the next turn. It is an open space. Keep alert!" Felsenthal whispered. "I will watch your back."

Hogan gasped out, " _Danke_!" And went out quickly. He got a glimpse of three SS men lying in the corridor as he ran down the hall.

The corridor opened up into the large anteroom with several desks and chairs flung haphazardly around the room. Hogan spotted a uniformed woman's body lying beside one of the desks. And another SS man running out of the far corridor.

Hogan raised his gun.

" _Nein_!" Felsenthal hissed.

The SS man saw them; it was Loeffler.

Loeffler gestured curtly at them, pointing toward the front.

"Wait a minute!" Hogan objected. "The Stage . . ."

And then he saw the Stage coming out of the middle corridor. He was followed by Wolfgang and, to Hogan's joy, LeBeau and Newkirk along with others.

" _Los_!" Felsenthal shouted and gestured.

Behind Hogan's men ran several SS guards. Loeffler turned his submachine gun on the followers. Felsenthal led the way to the outer door.

It was a frenzied mess when Hogan reached the door at the same time as the Stage and his group. They, followed by the others, were catapulted through the doors into the street, where even more chaos was waiting.

Several cars careened onto the sidewalk. One of the few clear images Hogan had of that night was Felsenthal turning back to fire a burst at the door and then turning to face Hogan with a grin — a grin that died on his face when a shot felled him from behind.

The furious Haas who had killed Felsenthal was aiming a Luger at the Stage. The Stage was quicker. Hogan had never seen such astonishment on anyone's face as on the major's when he died. Loeffler fired a continuous burst at the SS men trying to get out of the door; Wolfgang, Newkirk and LeBeau were already in one of the cars. Hogan managed to grab the Stage's arm and they both fell into the waiting car, followed by the still firing Loeffler.

The car swerved crazily and then sped down the street, followed by another. A truck came from the opposite direction, its occupants firing at the SS as the remaining Resistance fighters piled into it. The truck disappeared down the street as more SS men poured through the doors and got into vehicles that exploded when they were started. More SS men were hurt or killed as grenades and Carter's bombs were thrown at them from the rooftops across the street.

And then, after the rescue cars careened around the corners, the SS annex suddenly shuddered and slowly, oh so very slowly, started sliding into the street.

...

* * *

...

Carter, in position around the corner from the annex, watched as the third car passed him. Friedrich ran haltingly out of the door of the apartment building across the street from Carter.

"Clear," he shouted as he reached Carter. Carter grinned and depressed the plunger in his hand; he felt rather than heard the annex begin to fall into the street.

Then he saw her — a small figure in a bright blue coat lit by the red glare of angry explosions. She and others had poured out of the door through which Friedrich had just run.

The last thing Carter saw as Friedrich grabbed his arm and yanked him into a waiting car was that small blue figure crumpling to the pavement.

Finally, there was silence on the street, except for the groans and cries of the wounded and dying.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

March 29, 1945

From Armed Forces Radio: "In today's news, General Patton's Third Army has taken the important city of Frankfurt, while General Patch's Seventh Army has taken Mannheim. General Bradley turned the forces of General Hodges' 3rd Armored Division toward Paderborn. In one day, the Division achieved a stunning 65-mile long foray into German territory before stopping, suffering no casualties in their surprise advance. U.S. newspapers now report that the Allies have decided on four zones for the occupation of Germany, each zone under the authority of one of the major armies — U.S., British, French and Soviet. It is rumored that Hitler has replaced Heinz Guderian as Chief of Staff with Hans Krebs."

...

* * *

...

"Herr Baker?" Cleopatra asked in the radio room concealed in the top of one of the grain silos.

Baker grinned as he listened to the messages coming over one of the Resistance frequencies. "They're out." He listened a bit more. "Hamlet . . . the Stage . . . Papa Bear." A sigh of relief. "Four others also rescued."

"Casualties?" she asked.

Baker shook his head. "Nothing yet."

Cleopatra nodded. "The SS?"

Ludwig turned from the radio he was listening to. "Shocked, angry." He listened a little more. "The annex, most of it collapsed into the street. Casualties . . . many SS wounded and dead. More than we expected; Haas had ordered more men to the annex."

"Civilians?" she asked softly.

Baker looked at her set face as Ludwig shook his head. "Unknown, _meine Dame_."

Cleopatra straightened and nodded. "Send out the emergency evacuation message along with a warning. The SS will be extremely vigilant; everyone must take extra care." She looked at the two men watching her with somber faces. "Notify London. Future communications will be switched to Macbeth's and Richard's frequencies until further notice. We will shut down as soon as the message is sent."

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_ ," Ludwig said. He turned back to the radio and began broadcasting.

"Herr Baker, many thanks for your efforts. Your help has been invaluable. I know you are tired — "

"I can stay here as long as you need me," Baker interrupted.

" _Danke schön_. Ludwig will show you what to do to secure the radios. Then the two of you can retire for some much needed sleep."

Baker nodded. "After I know my guys are safe."

A tired smile. "As you wish."

Cleopatra went over to the ladder in the silo and started down.

...

* * *

...

In the morning light, the cars and the truck fanned out in separate directions from the destroyed annex.

Hogan kept an eye out for any following vehicles, but couldn't see any. After a mile or so, he caught glimpses of the other vehicles. Sometimes, he lost them in the normal city traffic. Other times, their paths crossed as they sped out of the sprawling city toward . . . Actually, Hogan had no idea where they were heading; he was just along for the ride.

Hogan tried to relax. But now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his aches and pains were returning. His head pounded, his ears still rang from the gunfire and explosions, and every muscle he owned felt like it was cramping. And his eyes, his aching, bloodshot eyes kept closing. After a while, he didn't bother trying to keep them open, and he relaxed against the seat back.

After a few minutes, Hogan's right eye popped open. The car was slowing; Hogan noticed the truck had appeared and stopped. Stopped where? He opened both eyes, but stayed in the dimness of the back seat.

They, the car and the truck, were in front of a train station. Hogan noticed several men and a couple of women jumping from the back of the truck and heading for the station. Several others went to a stop halfway down the road and waited patiently for a tram.

The car now stopped, and the driver — Hogan was surprised to see it was a woman — how did he not notice the driver was a woman? — got out of the car.

The person next to her slid over to the wheel. Hogan blinked. It was Loeffler without his helmet. He almost didn't recognize the SS corporal; he hadn't realized how young Loeffler was, maybe Carter's age? Without the helmet and that chronically grim expression on his face, he looked like a different man.

Without saying a word, the woman driver closed the door and instead of walking to the train station, went in the opposite direction. A man on a tandem bicycle waited for her in the middle of the street; she climbed onto the bicycle, and without looking back, they cycled away.

The truck started up and turned down a side street, past building-high piles of debris. Loeffler using only his left hand started driving in the opposite direction.

"What's going on?" Hogan asked the silent masked man next to him. "Why aren't they all staying with us?"

For a moment, he thought the Stage wouldn't answer. Then in a cold, even voice, "Most have no reason to return to the estate. Their orders are to leave Leipzig as soon as possible."

"Oh." _Brilliant conversation, Robert_. "You're mad at me, aren't you?"

Silence.

"O-kay," Hogan muttered under his breath. "I'm too tired to argue with you."

The Stage stayed silent as they continued on their way.

Finally, the car stopped in a heavily wooded area.

Hogan jerked awake as the Stage opened the car door. With a silent groan, Hogan followed him. Other vehicles had also arrived. As soon as their passengers exited, the cars left.

A boy beckoned to them. "This way."

They followed the child through the heavily wooded area for roughly a quarter of a mile to a secluded barn nestled next to a series of plowed fields. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter of the barn as well as the surrounding countryside. A large Mercedes was waiting beside the two-story building.

Inside the lit barn, Richard waited for them along with others who had participated in the raid.

"Stage!" Richard walked over to the still masked man. He grasped the Stage's hand. "I am glad to see you. For a while, I wondered if your plan would work."

A thin smile. "For a while, so did I." The smile faded. "How many?"

"I do not know; it is too soon."

"Felsenthal is dead," Loeffler said dully, sinking down on a hay bale. Blood was seeping through the right sleeve of his coat.

"And Franke," Pfeiffer whispered from the ground, his right pant leg soaked with blood.

A grim nod and the Stage turned away.

"You were right," Richard said. "They did not expect the attack. More would have died if you did not draw their attention. I hope they were not too . . . " His voice faded as he saw the Stage stiffen. "Forgive me. I did not wish to remind you of your ordeal."

A thin smile back. And his eyes met Richard's. A soft, "And you were prepared to make certain I would not be subjected to that ordeal again, weren't you, Richard?"

Surprise in his eyes, but Richard nodded. " _Ja_ , I was."

"I have never approved of assassination, Richard. Especially my own."

A formal, "I wanted to spare you more pain. And I wanted to spare us as well."

Silence from his superior.

Then, "Am I dismissed, Stage?"

He shook his head. "But no more assassination plans, Richard. If the attack had failed, the message would have been sent. Our people would have been safe."

"But not you," Richard said pointedly.

"I have always been at risk, Richard. I knew that from the start."

"I wanted to save you, Stage," Richard said. "You must believe that."

"I do believe it, Richard. But I would appreciate it if you try not to kill me again."

A thin smile and Richard nodded. "Agreed, Stage. A plane is waiting for Hamlet."

" _Gut_."

The Stage turned and walked over to the gray-faced Karl Weiss who lay on the ground. A doctor had been checking him out and nodded solemnly at the Stage as he knelt beside Weiss.

"There is a plane waiting to start you on your journey to England, Karl," the Stage said, kneeling beside his friend.

"You are making too much fuss over me," protested Weiss.

A smile. " _Ja_ , I know."

Weiss smiled faintly. The smile faded. " _Danke schön_. But you should not have risked yourself."

The Stage shook his head. "We have been through too much for me to give up on you that easily." Their hands clasped. "It is time to leave. Take care, Karl."

"And you as well, my friend. I hope to see you when this is over."

A smile. "And I, you. Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again."

Another firm clasp of their hands and the Stage stood. He went back to Richard.

"He will get to England safely," Richard said.

A nod. "I doubt we will meet again soon, Richard."

A surprisingly warm smile on the severe face. "I hope not. Keeping up with you is too much work."

A faint smile and their hands clasped. " _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Richard."

" _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Stage."

The Stage looked around the barn. More Resistance people had arrived. The doctor was walking over to several others who had been wounded in the raid; the Stage followed to thank them for their help.

Hogan, whose eyes had followed the Stage, was surprised to see Richard heading his way. He straightened up as Richard reached him; he was still angry at Richard's actions — was it really only yesterday? And he waited for the other man to say something.

"Were you trying to prove that you are as good as the Stage?" Richard said in a mocking tone.

"I wasn't trying to prove anything," Hogan said with suppressed anger. "The Stage said to think of another plan to help Hamlet and I did. What about you? I saw a lot of good people at that annex. I don't remember seeing you!"

"But I saw you, Papa Bear. Sleeping peacefully in your cell."

"What?"

"Sturmbannführer Haas granted me a glimpse of you as I was leaving."

"What the hell were you doing with Haas?" Hogan demanded.

"Translating very slowly those plans you so kindly gave him," he said to Hogan's surprise. "And slipping Franke the additional ammunition you needed for your escape."

"Oh." His eyes met Richard's. "I still don't like you."

"The feeling, Papa Bear, is mutual. _Auf Wiedersehen_." Richard started to turn away.

"Wait, _bitte_ ," Hogan said.

Richard looked back at him with a lifted brow.

"You operate out of Berlin?"

Richard nodded.

"And the Soviets are close."

" _Ja_."

"There is an American agent there," Hogan said. "His name is — "

"Major Hans Teppel." He smirked at Hogan's surprise. "I have known of Teppel for some time."

"How? Never mind. Look, it's not safe for him there. He needs to leave."

"It is not safe for anyone in Berlin," Richard said dryly. "But you are correct, Papa Bear. An American agent would be at great risk if the Soviets found him. We will warn him."

" _Danke schön_."

Richard nodded and walked back to Weiss.

The still masked Stage nodded a goodbye to Richard as he passed by and went back to Hogan and Wolfgang.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

Hogan nodded and they followed the Stage out of the barn where LeBeau, Newkirk and Carter were waiting for them.

...

* * *

...

They were back at the large manor house.

Anna Neumann looked closely at Wilhelm Klink, now unmasked, as he entered the stone room from the gazebo tunnel. She rose from her chair and went to him.

A faint smile. "It worked."

She nodded soberly, her eyes sweeping over his face. She knew him well and she saw the pain hiding in his eyes as well as the exhaustion.

Anna embraced Klink and felt him shrink from her touch. A glance at his back, guessing the cause; the SS was known for using a whip on prisoners[1]. "I will get a doctor," she said softly.

A shake of his head. "There is no time. There is something I must do."

"But . . . "

"I can live with it for now, Anna," he said in a low voice.

A glance at Hogan and Wolfgang. "Do they know?"

"No. And they must not," Klink said. "Especially Robert. He will try to stop what I must do."

"All right, my friend," Anna said. "I understand your fear. But promise me, when you can . . . "

He smiled. "I promise."

"But you are exhausted and you cannot go out until you rest."

"That I will not refuse."

"You know the way. Use the blue bedroom; I will take care of your friends."

" _Danke schön_ , Anna."

With a faint smile, he was gone.

...

* * *

...

Wilhelm Klink sighed as he entered the luxurious bedroom. The door closed behind him and . . .

Unexpectedly, his knees gave way and Klink fell to the floor, gasping. His body, with a mind of its own, recognized the safety of the room and had decided, enough.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet.

The adrenaline that had kept him going over the past few hours was ebbing away from his system. Its wake left him shaking, weak. He had been able thus far to push the pain away; now it was back with a vengeance.

He barely made it to the bed. He fell onto it, nearly crying out. His back was burning, his head was splitting. Every muscle and nerve in his body rebelled from the torture he had endured. And on top of everything, there was his exhaustion.

His eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

...

* * *

...

Back in the stone room, there was a reunion.

"Kinchy!" LeBeau said with a grin and a hug. "Rich!"

Newkirk and Carter followed, greeting the missing members of the team.

Hogan stood to the side, enjoying his men's reunion.

Anna walked over to Hogan and Wolfgang.

"Wolfgang." She took his hands and kissed him on both cheeks. "I am glad to see you."

"Anna, how, how can I thank you," he whispered.

She hugged him. "You know there is nothing to thank. We both love him. Now, you must rest. Between your work duties and your efforts here, you have scarcely slept for the past two days. _Bitte_ , go. You will be busy later."

" _Danke_. I will see you before I go?"

She nodded and watched him leave.

"How long have you known him?" Hogan asked quietly.

"My husband's family had known the Klink family for many generations," Anna said, smiling at his surprise. "I met them before our marriage in 1920."

"A long time."

"Yes." She looked at him closely. "Do you require a doctor?"

Hogan flexed his aching limbs. "No, I'm sore, but I'm okay. Felsenthal . . . Felsenthal knew what he was doing." He looked at her soberly. "You know he's dead?"

Anna nodded. " _Ja_." Sadness on her face. "I knew him as a boy."

"Did he have a family?"

"Only his sister still lives; she is a widow with a small son. His parents died a few years ago."

"What's going to happen to her?"

"She moved to a small town near Frankfurt, an area now controlled by the Amis. I have provided a pension for her after the war. She will need it then."

"That's generous of you."

Anna shook her head. "She has given much for our cause."

"You have too."

Another shake of her head. "I am only one of many." She looked at him. "I suggest you get some sleep as well. You must be exhausted."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah, I am. And I could use a hot bath."

Anna smiled. "Go up the staircase and knock twice, then once, then four times. Bruno will show you where to go."

"Thanks, but first," a glance at his men, "I think I've got some explaining to do."

Anna smiled faintly. " _Ja_ , you do. Your men also need to eat and rest. Please help yourselves. I have other duties to perform. _Guten Tag_." And she left the stone room after nodding a goodbye to Hogan's men.

Hogan went over to the buffet table and picked up a delicate gold rimmed Meissen cup. There was a pregnant silence behind him. "You're asking very loudly, fellas," he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Huh?" from Carter. "Sir, we're not saying anything."

"Then you're the only one, Andrew," he said as he turned around to look at them.

The rest of the team looked at each other with some awkwardness and stayed silent.

"Okay," he said after a sip of the coffee. "Suppose you tell me what you've been doing since I was away."

That they had no trouble telling. LeBeau told him of the French laborers he picked up from the concentration camp and of the traitor in their midst. Newkirk told him of the trip to the _Neues Rathaus_ and the Oberbürgermeister's office safe and then how, at the annex, he and LeBeau had rescued a woman and her son. Kinch told him about the plans for the telephone systems and how he and Gustav had rerouted many of the official lines in the city, sometimes making calls of their own to throw off the SS. And Baker told him of manning the radios, listening to the messages sent by the various German commands, and the messages he and Ludwig had intercepted and sent on with crucial changes in their texts. That left only Carter, Carter who was oddly subdued. When the others looked at him, he, in an uncharacteristically flat voice, told them of the numerous explosives he, Friedrich, Ute and others had prepared, and later used to blow up the building and the cars.

Hogan nodded in approval. "You guys were a lot busier than I was. I was stuck in a cell most of the time taking a nap." He looked at them with a serious expression. "I'm glad you were all able to be useful."

"Thanks to you, sir," Kinch said. "You interceded with Cleopatra for us."

A faint smile. "I've got to admit that was probably the hardest thing I did over the past 24 hours. She is one tough lady."

"We noticed, sir," Newkirk said. "Even Richard listened to her."

"Richard, BAH!" LeBeau added a few colorful French phrases.

"Hold it!" Hogan said in unconsciously harsh voice.

LeBeau stared at him in surprise.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. But," Hogan took a deep breath, "his wife and children were brutally murdered by the SS. It made him hard and unforgiving." Hogan shook his head; the memory of Cleopatra's words was hard to erase. "I don't like him, but I can understand him." His eyes swept their sober expressions. "I can't tell you how proud I am of all of you. We started out badly, thinking we could just do what we wanted without regard to the people around us, people who, like it or not, knew a lot more about the problems the rescue faced than we did. And thinking we could do it together as we used to. That was my mistake."

"Sir?" Baker said.

Hogan sat on the corner of the table. "I'd forgotten that whatever we did at home, at the camp, impacted far more people than us."

"Of course, it did," Newkirk said with a grin. "We . . . " He stopped as Hogan held up a hand.

"But we tended to forget that, didn't we? Hell, _I_ forgot it all the time. Once our part was over, I figured everything was okay. How many messes did we leave behind that someone else had to clean up? Blow up a factory — what about the people who were hurt, out of jobs? Blow up a train — who cleaned up the bodies, consoled the families, fixed the rail lines? Send out escapees — how many of them were actually able to get to safe places? Even at the camp — how many times did Klink, idiotic, bumbling Klink I used to call him, have to clean up after us or protect us when the SS or Hochstetter got too close?" He shook his head. "And here I was all set to take off and confront the SS in a massive, unfriendly city without thinking about the consequences." He shook his head again. "I didn't realize how naïve I was until Felsenthal shoved me into that SS building."

"Heck, sir," Newkirk started with bravado, "we did that all the time in — "

"In a small prison camp area with third-rate soldiers," Hogan finished quietly. "The SS at that annex _knew_ Felsenthal and Loeffler and Franke and the other SS men by name or sight. And the things those guys had to do to keep their covers . . . " A shudder shook him.

"They gave you a beating, sir," Kinch guessed.

Hogan nodded. "Two of them," he said softly, "had to torture the Stage."

A white-faced LeBeau groped for a chair and sank into it. The others looked just as ill.

"We would have been arrested or killed the minute we got inside the building, probably blowing the entire mission," Hogan continued. "And those tunnels you guys came through — they had to be there for some months now."

"A year," Carter mumbled.

"A year," Hogan echoed. "And that damn annex. After I got out of that cell and found a couple of other prisoners, I had to figure out where to go next. Hell, I got lost a couple of times or was interrupted by a firefight. A firefight . . . When was the last time any of us were in a battle like that?" He shook his head again and looked at his men. "And you guys — I was going to risk all of you on some quixotic non-plan instead of using you where you'd be more useful. All those jobs you did for Cleopatra . . . She knew what your skills were and she used you where you would be most useful."

"You did too, sir," Kinch said quietly. "Don't put yourself down.

He nodded. "I did, but not enough, especially at the camp. I sure as heck didn't use the men in the camp often enough."

"Williams . . . " LeBeau started.

"Yeah, Williams[2] was a traitor. But that left hundreds of others who weren't. I won't make that mistake again. If they let me stay in the Air Force after the war, I'll make damn sure I know what the guys under me can do, even if they don't know they can do it."

"If they let you!" Carter said, shocked out of his depression.

Hogan nodded. "I've been told that once the war ends, most guys are going out the door.[3] Including a whole bunch of colonels and generals."

"They'd be crazy to let you go, sir," Baker said.

A faint smile. "That's true only as long I can show them I can do the job the Air Force wants, needs done. That remains to be seen." A long look at his men. "You guys are beat; so am I. We can talk later after we get some sleep." He put the cup down and headed for the door.

"Sir," Kinch said.

Hogan turned to look at them. They were all ramrod straight as they saluted him.

Surprised, pleased, embarrassed, Hogan straightened his aching body and returned their salute. And hurriedly left so they wouldn't see the tears in his eyes.

...

* * *

...

Anna Neumann walked down the stairs leading into the wine cellar, followed by her old servant Petrus Grünewald. Nearly all of the Resistance members had gone. The few who were left needed rest and food; brandies and wines would help them relax. Her eyes swept the racks of bottles. Johann had been the connoisseur of fine wines and liqueurs, and after their marriage, he had taught her. But she didn't have his finely developed palate for, and she never could completely distinguish between, the various types of wines as he could. Or as Wilhelm could, she remembered with a faint smile. But she had learned to appreciate the fine vintages he had collected over the years. Vintages that would now be left behind when she left . . .

Anna felt a faint pang of regret. A regret at leaving the life she had lived with Johann and Georg. And yes, even Wilhelm. But Johann and Georg were long gone, she had lost them in her secret fight against those who had taken over her beloved country. Nearly all her friends, her real friends, not the ones she entertained for their value to her cause, were gone, taken in the war or fled for their safety. And soon, she would be gone too.

Anna took several bottles of wine and put them in the basket that Grünewald held. She added two bottles of fine old brandy to the basket.

"Take them to the stone room, _bitte_."

" _Jawohl, gnädige Frau_."

Anna watched him for a moment. Grünewald had served the Neumann family since he was a boy; his ties to the estate, the land were much stronger than hers. And he had refused to leave with her. He had been born here, as had his father before him, and he would die here, he had told her. She could order him to leave, and he would obey, but she wouldn't. He had lost what remained of his family, two grandsons, in Russia and in Italy. The estate was his only link to the past and the future. A future now devoid of the children that had given him such pleasure. She could not deny him what little joy he had left in life.

Anna turned back to the wines. And here were those extraordinary vintages that Johann had spent years collecting. She had thought about taking them with her as a remembrance of her once happy life. But now she knew someone else who would enjoy them more than she would. Yes, it would be fitting to give them to . . .

She heard a muffled sound and she turned toward it. It was back in that dark little room where Hogan's men had been imprisoned by Richard.

Anna walked over to the chamber. It was still dark inside. But she could just make out the small figure huddled against the back wall. And she could hear as well. And she remembered a day when Georg had come home and run into this same place and huddled on the floor and cried as bitterly as the man-child inside cried now.

Anna went inside and knelt beside him. "Hush, _Liebchen_ , hush. Shhhh," she crooned and held him close.

With a fierce aching, Andrew Carter clung to her and cried in her arms.

Anna held him and rocked him gently, soothing him as she had once done so long ago for her lost child.

After a long while, the storm passed. And now, Carter was embarrassed. "I'm . . . I'm . . . sorry," he said as he moved away from her.

Anna straightened her clothes and settled back against the wall.

It was too dim to see Carter's face, for which he was grateful. "You must think I'm crazy or something," he said in a low voice.

Anna reached over and took his hand, which he tried to pull away. She wouldn't let him, and kept his hand in hers. "Can you tell me what upsets you so, my friend?"

"I'm . . . I'm a killer," he mumbled.

"You are?"

"I kill people. People who haven't done anything. Civilians . . . ch . . . children."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"The raid . . . I didn't go in with the others."

" _Ja_ , your task was to set the charges in the adjacent buildings and bring down the annex when it was time."

"Yeah, I did." He rubbed his sleeve against his dripping nose. "I did a really good job too. Made sure the charges were all right. Made sure they would take the walls down. Made sure the timers were set correctly. They were perfect." He ground his fists against his eyes; his eyes wouldn't stop tearing. "Then I hid around the corner and waited. And then . . . And then . . . They . . . Friedrich, he told me to keep an eye out, that everyone would be coming through the front entrance, that they couldn't go back to the basement entrances."

" _Ja_ , the SS had found and blocked those exits."

Carter nodded. "He said he'd let me know when it was safe to blow the charges. He said to wait for his signal."

"And you did."

Again, a nod. "After our cars left, he came out of the building and told me it was clear. And I . . . I pushed the plunger. And . . . I just pushed it down. And the building blew up. And the cars in the street. And . . . and . . . and . . . I saw her."

"Who did you see?" Anna asked in a gentle voice.

"She . . . she was a little thing. In a blue coat, just staring at everything. And there were others, just folks, running away from the fighting and the explosions. And . . . and . . she fell . . . that little girl . . .

"I killed her." The tears started again. "I killed her . . .I killed . . . "

"Shhh." Anna moved closer to him. "Shhh."

He jerked out of her reach. "How can you stand being with me? I killed that little girl. Me. No one else. Me. I killed a little girl. I'm a killer!"

"Do you consider me a killer?" asked the woman with the kind eyes.

"No, you're not! You couldn't hurt a fly!"

"I have been a general in the Stage's army for many years," Anna said softly. "I have talked to Nazis, SS, soldiers, others, pretending that I agreed with their insanity. I have seen children torn to pieces by Allied bombs. I have seen decent men and women hanging from lampposts when they rebelled against the madness that has infected my country.

"And I have sent men and women to their deaths in this fight. I sent my own son, a boy of 16, on a mission that ended with his death. I held his torn body after it was over and rocked him as I had done when he was a baby, and watched him die."

Carter looked at her, stunned by her words. And saw the tears run down her cheeks.

"And I did the same when his father was killed years before on another mission gone bad." She looked at Carter's tear-smudged face. "If you are a killer, what am I, Andrew Carter? Did I kill my husband, my son? Did I kill those who died when war industries were bombed on my orders? When I sent information to London regarding troop movements and hidden facilities? When I ordered them destroyed?" She touched his face lightly. "If this is the first time you have seen the true consequences of our war against the Nazis, my young friend, then you have been very fortunate."

"You think I'm a dumb kid, don't you?" he said with some heat. "For feeling this way."

Anna shook her head. " _Nein_. You are not dumb, and you are not a child. Cry your tears, my friend. Cry for all the deaths. For the ones who die by our hand and for the ones who die by our enemies' hands. Cry even for their deaths — even the monsters deserve tears." She pulled out the necklace hidden beneath her sweater. "Cry as He cries for all of us."

Carter stared at the crucifix in her hand.

"This is how I stay sane, my friend," Anna said gravely. "How I can live with the deaths I am responsible for, for the millions that have died because of man's inhumanity." She looked at him soberly. "Grieve for that child, for all those who have died. And do not doubt that the others with you feel pain over those who have died."

"But they don't . . . "

She put the crucifix under her sweater. "This is my way. Others have their own ways. Find your way, my friend. But do not doubt what we must do until this insanity ends. Other children will die, other parents will grieve, other wives will mourn their dead until the war ends. And other men of conscience must learn to live with the horrors they have seen, the horrors they were forced to do to end the terrible madness of the past ten years. Talk to your friends, Herr Andrew. If they are honest with themselves, you will discover that they also grieve for the innocents lost in this battle, that they are also in pain." She touched his face. "You have a good heart; you want to make people happy. When this madness is over, you will find a way to do so."

Anna rose, leaving him on the floor. "Try and sleep now, Herr Andrew. Forget for a few moments the horrors you have seen. You will not be disturbed."

She turned to leave.

" _Danke schön_ , Frau Anna," Carter said, a little embarrassed by his tears. Then, "Have you ever been to North Dakota?"

Anna smiled and shook her head.

Carter rose awkwardly. "I'm part Indian," he said, walking closer to her. "We sometimes adopt people, good people, into the tribe, to make them one of us . . . You don't have a family anymore . . . I would like to adopt you after the war, Frau Anna. My folks, my Mom and Dad, sister and brother, I know they would really love to meet you. We're not rich or sophisticated or smart or anybody special, but . . . "

"I would enjoy that, Herr Andrew."

"You would? Really?" A smile lit his face. "Okay, we have a date then. After the war," he said, excitement coloring his voice. "I'll show you Bull Frog . . . And on the Fourth of July, not this year, but maybe next year or the year after, I'll take you to all the best picnic places. And show you the buttes and all the empty places that really aren't empty . . . Here, everything runs into everything else. But there . . . Boy, you can drive for a hundred miles and not see anyone else . . . And the only sounds are the wind blowing over the grass and through the trees and the birds singing and the eagles — gosh, they're gorgeous birds, just soaring in the cloudless blue sky . . . And . . . And . . . Everything," he finished, now embarrassed by his enthusiasm.

"And everything," she echoed softly. "Dream of those endless miles and skies, my young friend."

Anna Neumann walked out and closed the door behind her.

...

* * *

Endnotes

1 Roger Moorhouse: _Berlin at War_. Their other standard interrogation techniques were far more horrific, bloody and hard to even read about. The Stage got off easy.

2 "One in Every Crowd"

3 From July 1945 to January 1946, the U.S. Armed Forces went from 12,355,000 (7,447,000 overseas) to 6,907,000 (3,462,000 overseas). By July 1946, the total number had fallen to 3,004,000 (1,335,000 overseas). Robert Goralski: _World War II Almanac 1931 - 1945._


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

March 29, 1945

Anna Neumann dragged herself up the stairs to the wooden door. Again, the patterned knock on the door; Bruno opened the door for her.

He looked at her tired expression and spoke in sign language.

A faint smile. "I know, Bruno; I will sleep soon. Did Papa Bear come up here?"

He nodded and gestured toward the servants quarters' staircase.

"Is he sleeping?"

Bruno nodded.

" _Gut._ Heinz is still downstairs. Have the others arrived yet?"

He shook his head.

"I will be in the library," Anna said. "Call me when they arrive."

Bruno nodded and watched as she walked away.

Anna passed through the dining room and the drawing room, and paused beside her elderly housekeeper, Frau Helga Ziegler.

"Jawohl, Herr Oberbürgermeister. Frau Neumann has just come in," Frau Ziegler said into the telephone. Anna motioned toward the library; the housekeeper nodded. "One moment, Herr Oberbürgermeister; she is in the library. I will connect you."

In the library, Anna picked up the telephone, and composing her tired, swirling thoughts, said with forced cheer, "Herr Freyberg! What a pleasure!" She turned to look out the window at the garden. "To what do I owe this honor?"

"Frau Neumann, I want to convey my thanks for your gracious invitation to the dinner celebrating the Führer's birthday in a few weeks. My wife and daughter wish me to state our happy acceptance to such a joyful event. Especially since the news this morning is so unpleasant."

"I am glad that you are pleased, Herr Freyberg. But what unpleasantness troubles you?"

"Sad news, Frau Neumann, very sad and very troubling, though, of course, it will not be announced to the city."

"Oh?"

"This must be kept strictly confidential, Frau Neumann. Commandos have infiltrated the city, _meine Dame_."

"Commandos? No commandos would dare do so. Not with the SS — "

"But it was the SS they attacked."

"The SS! You must be mistaken."

"I wish it were so. My wife and daughter are very much shaken. So many deaths."

Anna's eyes closed.

"Including children. Our precious children."

Bile rose in Anna's mouth. _Yes, our precious children — my son, the thousands upon thousands killed in the camps, the ones who die in endless bombings, in endless battles . . . The ones you helped murder!_

Somehow, not even knowing what she said, Anna ended the call and hung up the telephone. Almost blindly, she reached for the brandy and poured herself a large drink. She took a fiery gulp and with a blaze of sickening anger, she threw the glass against the immaculate wall. The glass shattered, liquid splattering everywhere. And the tears, silent, agonizingly silent, began as her left hand convulsively clutched the crucifix around her neck.

Behind her, a hand, warm, strong touched her shoulder. Blindly, her hand reached up to grasp it as her tears continued.

Finally, the tears stopped. The hand sensing her shifting mood fell from her shoulder as the man said softly, "Anna."

And she turned. "Richard."

His hands, those hands that had killed so often, so mercilessly, gently wiped the tears from her face. And he stepped back from her; he was dressed as a Wehrmacht general.

"You are ready to leave." There was a bare tremor in her voice.

He inclined his head. "My people have already left Leipzig. As for Hamlet's remaining men, I am taking Loeffler and Pfeiffer with me as my aides. "

"I assume they have new identities."

" _Natürlich_."

"Hertz and Unger?"

"They were on the roof when the annex fell. They were fortunate and survived with only a few broken bones. They will join me in Berlin when they can."

"How many of our people died?"

"You know of Felsenthal and Franke. Only one other, one of my men; you do not know him."

"I am sorry."

"The mistake was his; he should not have been there."

"You are a hard man, Richard," she whispered.

"I am what I am, Anna. My gentle Donka said I was born hard." He shook his head. "She was right, as my poor mother had reason to know. And I will die hard, raging at death, and at St. Peter when I meet him."

"He may rage back at you; he was known to have a temper."

"Then we will be well-suited."

Anna smiled faintly.

"Ludwig knows how many of your people were injured; ask him for the count."

Anna nodded. "You will not change your mind and leave Berlin?"

" _Nein_. When this enemy is defeated, a new one will take its place."

"You do not long for peace?"

"Donka and our precious _Kinder(_ 1) were my peace. It ended when they were slaughtered. _Gott_ willing it will return when I see them in the next life. But even there," he added with a serious smile, "I will humbly beg _Gott_ to let me continue fighting against those who harm the souls who yearn for peace in this world and are denied it."

"The Soviets are not far from Berlin."

He nodded. "When they arrive, I will don a Soviet uniform. At least for a time. Then, I will become one of the nameless masses in a defeated city."

Anna nodded and held her hand out; Richard took it with a gentleness that surprised even her. " _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Richard."

He bent over her hand and kissed it. " _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Anna."

This time, tears of goodbye touched her cheeks as he left; she knew she would never see him again. " _Gott sei mit dir_ ,(2)" she whispered.

...

* * *

...

Down in the small room adjacent to the large stone room, Heinz Meyer checked the list of the weapons Richard had returned to the estate against the list of the weapons that had been handed out. A satisfied grunt; the losses were well within the range he and Richard had anticipated before the raid. Then again, what did it matter? This was the last mission for the estate, barring any unexpected disasters. The weapons, along with the unused explosives and their parts would be shipped to Richard and Macbeth, hidden in the estate's normal shipments of food and other supplies to Berlin and Bavaria. The fewer weapons left, the easier it would be to move them. But Heinz's steward soul liked to account for everything on the estate, as he had accounted for everything over the past fifteen years since his father the late steward died in the train accident that also killed the then owner of the estate Mathias Neumann.

Heinz rubbed his scratchy face as he looked at the list yet again, wondering briefly when he had last shaved. Or slept.

A brief knock on the door, and Friedrich entered. A sharp glance at his son. Friedrich's limp was more pronounced than usual, his eyes more veiled than usual, and . . . Now, Heinz could see the tears in his jacket — nothing unusual about that; Friedrich had been tearing his clothes since he was a small boy — but there were blood smears on the jacket as well.

Heinz's eyes dropped to the clipboard. "Where's your rifle?" he asked.

"I destroyed it; one less to worry about."

Heinz nodded, crossing it off the list. "How many people are still here?"

"Not many, perhaps a dozen or so, not counting Papa Bear's men — Ludwig is still checking who is here, injuries and the like, for the meeting. Herr Wolfgang is in one of the sleeping rooms. Richard and Hamlet's men are gone. And _mein Herr_ . . . he is sleeping upstairs."

"Any problems with our people in the city?"

Friedrich shook his head. "Not that I've heard." A very faint smile. "One advantage to being in a city with tens of thousands of refugees. Not even the SS can track everyone."

" _Ja_. It has been a long day, Friedrich; go get some sleep. And," Heinz said as his son limped toward the door, "lose the jacket before your mother sees it. She worries enough as it is."

Friedrich nodded.

Then, "Friedrich," Heinz asked in a low voice, "how many?"

Friedrich stopped before the door. He didn't look at his father, didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, "Eight, one with a knife," he said in an emotionless voice as he opened the door and walked through it.

 _Eight_. In a fit of aching anger, Heinz hurled the useless inventory against the wall, and buried his face in his hands. _Mein Gott, no more_ , the anguished father prayed for his son _. Bitte, no more!_

 _..._

Else Meyer closed the blinds in the bedroom before sitting down on the bed, pillows plumped high behind her back. And she waited. It shouldn't be long now. She had heard the shower when she walked up the stairs earlier. Friedrich, she knew. She had seen him return to the house, his jacket missing. Destroyed or lost, but where? Here or in Leipzig? He wouldn't tell her that, or why it was missing.

The door . . . " _Mutti_?"

And Else opened her arms as she had done for too many years after too many missions and held her trembling son close.

...

* * *

...

They were waiting for her when Anna entered the huge old-world wood and stone kitchen. Her eyes swept them. Her faithful lieutenants through so many unvoiced battles — Heinz Meyer, Bruno, Ludwig, Frau Ziegler and Grünewald. They remained standing until she sat on a high stool at the worktable; then they sat.

"Ludwig?" She asked.

"We were fortunate, Frau Anna. Of the dozens of men and women who participated in the raid and our other activities, we lost three, Felsenthal, Franke and one of Richard's men. Not counting Hertz and Unger, twenty-three were wounded, two seriously. They are in the hospital as innocent bystanders caught in the so-called commando raid. The others are being treated by our people."

" _Gut_. SS casualties?"

"More than expected. Pfeiffer estimated the annex had a little over a hundred twenty men and perhaps a dozen women in it when it was locked down for the night; Haas had assigned more from outlying areas. Some forty are confirmed dead, including Haas, unknown injured — the SS is not going to admit they were humiliated. They are still looking for bodies or survivors in the wreckage."

Anna nodded. "Civilians?"

"Two deaths, that we know of, _meine Dame_ ," Ludwig said. "One was a little girl caught in the crossfire. The other, an elderly man who may have had a heart attack. There were injuries, but we do not know the exact number. We believe most of them occurred during the frenzied evacuations of some of the buildings on the street."

"They should have stayed inside," Heinz said with grumbling sadness. "They would have been safer."

"Perhaps," Anna said. "At any rate, we have angered the SS; they will be looking for scapegoats. And us."

"Do they know about us?" asked Frau Ziegler. "That is, do they know the real reason for the attack?"

"Ludwig?"

The younger man nodded soberly. " _Ja._ They now know that Haas had the Stage as a prisoner. One radio transmission slipped through before we could shut it down. Of course, they will keep that quiet. But once they are more organized, they will be looking for him. And us."

Anna nodded. "Heinz, how goes our project with the French laborers?"

" _Gut_. One of them 'accidentally' fell from the loft during the night and broke his neck."

Bruno snorted loudly.

Heinz smiled faintly. "The other one will soon have an accident."

Anna nodded, a serious look on her face. "Can we keep the other laborers here?"

" _Ja_ , but we will need to return Gaston — he is their leader — to the camp so he can tell others about us. We will also need more men to continue working the fields and planting the crops."

"I will have the Oberbürgermeister draw up the orders; at least, he is useful for some things. Please give me an estimate of how many workers we will need. Hopefully, we can keep them here until the war ends."

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_."

"As you all know, we are closing our operations. Bruno and Frau Ziegler will accompany me when I leave in a week or so. But," her eyes swept them, "have the rest of you decided what you will do? I know my faithful Grünewald will stay to look after those who decide not to leave. Heinz?"

"Friedrich and I will stay at least for a little while, since the Amis will be the ones who take Leipzig. As for the future," he shook his head, "we have not yet decided. Farmers will be needed, even by the Soviets. But Else and our younger _Kinder_. . . Manfred from the western farm has family near the Swiss border; he will take Else, Kurt, and our daughters there. They will be safer."

" _Gott_ willing," Anna whispered. "Ludwig?"

"I have talked it over with _Mutti_. Her disabled brother and his family cannot leave, so she will not leave. Neither will I."

"We have several empty cottages on the edge of the estate. Have your mother's family move in there. It will be safer for them."

" _Danke, meine Dame_."

"And what of the others, the farm hands and remaining servants?"

"Of the single hands," Heinz said, "the ones who have been actively involved in our operations, they have talked of leaving; the rest will likely stay. The family men, they are reluctant to leave. They, like Else and I, are waiting to see what happens when the Amis arrive."

"As are the outside helpers," Frau Ziegler said.

Anna nodded, not really surprised. It was difficult for all of them to give up their lives, their friends for an unknown, possibly unfriendly place. "The city, whether we like it or not, will still face an army. I suggest that when you talk to your people, you give those who do not live here the option of moving to the estate. That way if they decide to stay, at least they will be with people they have known. It may protect them in the future. Also if the Soviets see them working the land, they may be permitted to remain here."

There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

"Whether you go or stay," Anna continued, "I have done what I can to help you and our loyal helpers financially."

They, save for Heinz, stared at her in surprise.

"I have arranged for pensions to be administered by a Swiss bank on your behalf. I confess I do not know what the Soviets plan or if they will allow the funds to be sent to you. If they do block the funds, the monies will still be available to you once you are away from Soviet jurisdiction. To you and any of your heirs."

"Frau Anna," Frau Ziegler began, "it is — "

"No more than you deserve," Anna said firmly. "You have all given much to our cause. It is the least that I can do. Now," Anna stood; they stood as well, "we are all tired from the activities of the last few days. Most of our guests have gone. For a few brief hours, there is peace in our part of Germany. Go and rest; I suspect the evening will have more work for all of us. Rest well."

Anna started to walk away.

"Frau Anna." It was the steward Heinz. "There may not be time later to say this. But . . . Germany, the Germany we hated and feared and been ashamed of, will soon be gone. In time, _Gott_ willing, she will become the nation we believe in. No one will know what you did, what we did, to help Germany become clean again. But we know. And we want to thank you for giving us back our pride and our self-respect."

His heels clicked together in a salute, and he and the others bowed their thanks.

Anna, a grave smile on her face, looked at each of them. "And I thank you for your help, your willingness to face not merely death — every man, woman and child in a German city faces death — but also disgrace, torture, a humiliating death for the country we still love."

She saw Bruno fill beautifully etched glasses with a rare brandy. Beginning with Anna, he offered each of them a glass. With sober expressions, they took their glasses.

"To the new Germany," Anna said, and heard it echoed by the others.

They each drank and then broke the stems of the fragile glasses. Anna solemnly nodded at them and hurriedly left the kitchen with tears in her eyes.

...

* * *

...

"Andrew?" Peter Newkirk called softly, opening the door to the second sleeping room. A creak sounded as one of the sleepers on a cot turned with a snoring grunt. But no Andrew.

He closed the door and went back to the main room where the remains of a late lunch were being gathered up by a middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform and a young boy.

"Still no Andrew?" Rich Baker asked, finishing off his meal at one of the tables scattered around the stone room.

Newkirk shook his head. "I haven't seen him since Colonel, I mean Papa Bear left."

"He probably went in when we were sleeping," Louis LeBeau said with unconcern.

"And left again without any of us noticing?"

"We were all kind of beat, Peter," James Kinchloe said, munching on a rare summer fruit. "Where can he go?"

Newkirk gave a snort. "You know that boy likes to wander."

"Well, he can't wander far," LeBeau said. "Don't worry about it."

"Yeah," Kinch looked at Newkirk. "You normally don't fuss over him this much. What gives?"

"I don't know," Newkirk admitted. "He seems . . . off. Too quiet."

"Carter is quiet," Baker said with a smile.

"Yeah, but . . . This feels different. Has he said anything about the raid?" The others shook their heads. "And that's off, too. I mean we normally talk about what's happened."

"Who's had the time?" Kinch said. He smiled at the others. "I still don't know what you guys were up to in that annex or in that radio room."

"Or that phone place," Baker laughed. "That must have been something."

"Oh, it was," Kinch began. "I've never seen so many . . . "

And soon, they were exchanging stories about the events of the past twenty-four hours. And still, no Carter came in to join them.

...

* * *

...

"Herr Andrew?"

"Oh, hi, Friedrich," Andrew James Carter said from his perch in a gazebo overlooking a pond. He was watching a family of ducks cavorting on the water. Not far from the water was a small building with more ducks waddling into and around it; a couple were heading toward the pond. Then he noticed an elderly man come out of the building, carrying a basket of eggs.

"What are you doing here?" asked the youth as he pulled his lame left leg up the steps with a grimace.

"Oh. Is it forbidden?" Carter stood. "I guess I shouldn't be — "

" _Nein_ , it is not forbidden. That is . . . _Nein_ , if someone comes who shouldn't we can go below. We will be warned."

Carter nodded. "I guess there are lookouts all around here."

" _Ja_ , at all the gates and in the silos."

"It's like a big base here." He considered for a moment. "I guess it is like a military base with all the stuff that goes on."

"I do not know; I have never been on a military base."

"Never? I thought German boys — "

Friedrich shook his head. "My leg was injured years ago. When Georg died."

"Georg?"

Friedrich nodded. "He was my best friend, Frau Anna's son. We grew up together."

"Together?"

" _Ja, mein Vater_ is Heinz, Frau Anna's steward. We live on the other side of the gardens, there." He nodded toward a picturesque house nestled in front of some tall trees.

"How did Georg die?" Carter asked in a low voice.

"An explosion at an arms' factory. We were still learning back then; one of the bombs went off early. I was far enough away; it only caught my leg. Georg was closer. _Vater_ brought him home; he died here."

"I'm sorry."

Friedrich nodded. "It was a hard time for all of us, especially Frau Anna. For a time, we quit our work. Some wanted to stop. Even the man who — " He gestured toward the house.

"The S — "

" _Nein_! Do not speak his name! It is _verboten_!"

" _Entschuldigung_ ," Carter murmured. "I guess . . . _Entschuldigung_." He cleared his throat. "But you didn't stop."

"That was because of Frau Anna. She told us we could not stop. That what we did was important to Germany, to all children. That if we stopped, then Hitler and the Nazis had won, and Herr Johann and Georg had died for no reason."

"How old was Georg?"

"Sixteen years."

Carter stared at him. "You and Georg were planting bombs at sixteen?"

" _Ja_."

 _Sixteen. My kid brother is sixteen. How would I feel if Kenny decided to help me make bombs and use them?_ A wave of nausea hit Carter; for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.

"How," he mumbled, "how could your parents let you do that? How could Frau Anna do that to her son? He was just a kid; you were just a kid."

Friedrich looked at him with unexpectedly mature eyes. "We are in a war, Herr Andrew. We have been in a war against the Führer since I was nine."

 _Nine. That's how old that little girl looked._

"Do you know, Herr Andrew, that in some places boys as young as twelve are forced to fight? Even in Leipzig, there are some that young in the _Volkssturm_."

" _Nein_ ," he managed to say.

"I would rather die _for_ Frau Anna than for that _Hund_ in Berlin!"

"You shouldn't even be thinking of dying," Carter whispered. "You should be thinking of college, or your favorite girl, or what you wanted to do with your life."

"Maybe in America, Herr Andrew. Where bombs do not fall on your school or your friend's home or the places and people you have known all your life. This is not America; this is Nazi Germany where children do not yet have the luxury of being children." A distant look in his eyes. "Maybe, _Gott_ willing, it will happen. Maybe I will see it."

 _Maybe I will see it? Is that how he feels? Is that how everyone here feels? At least, I'll get to go home, see kids who don't know what war is, who are happy and innocent_. . . _Like that little girl?_ A shudder shook him. _That little girl who already lived through bombings and already seen God knows what. And Friedrich . . . A kid who saw his best friend get blown up, was nearly killed himself. And saw how many others get blown up? I . . ._

"It is nice here, is it not, Herr Andrew? I think this is my favorite place on the estate. In the summer, the gardens are blooming with every kind of flower, the birds are singing and the fields are rich with crops. Sometimes, you can almost forget there is a war. At least, in the past. Now, the war is coming much closer. Soon there will be thousands of soldiers coming, destroying what little beauty . . . " He broke off. Then, in a voice filled with anger, "I do not want to see it! I love this place, and I do not want to see it destroyed by strangers."

Carter looked at the blond boy, a few years younger than he, and then looked at the pond with the baby ducklings following their mother over the placid water. He felt . . . He wasn't sure how he felt.

"Friedrich," Carter said slowly, "after the war, if you could do anything you wanted, what do you want to do? Stay here?"

" _Nein_! Never! This place will be gone! Frau Anna will be gone; others, Soviets, will be here; they will destroy this. _Vater_ is wrong this time. We should not stay. We should leave with Frau Anna!" He stood suddenly, startling the mother duck who fanned her wings and started toward the other side of the pond; the ducklings followed in her wake. "I did not do what I did to live with evil again," he said in an intense voice. "I want to see beautiful things again and not be afraid that others will destroy it. I want to . . . I want to . . . "

"You want to be free," Carter finished softly.

" _Ja_! I want to feel the dirt in my hands again, to plant the seeds, to watch them grow, to be the steward I was born to be . . . To not be afraid." He sat down again, sadness on his face. "I know I will not see it here."

"Do know where North Dakota is?" Carter asked.

" _Nein_ ," was the muted answer.

"You should find a map of the United States and look for it. That's my home," Carter said, suddenly realizing how much he missed it, suddenly realizing how much he missed Bull Frog where the war didn't exist. "It's big, so big, about half the size of Germany. Lots of farms there. My parents, kid brother and baby sister live there. Pop's got a farm, not one of the really big ones with thousands of acres, but still a good sized one. Funny, I never cared about the farm or the things you like. I always wanted . . . Never mind, doesn't matter. Kenny, my kid brother, he sounds just like you in his letters. Likes the feel of dirt, of planting things, watching them grow. You'd like him, and he'd like you. Maybe after the war, you can go there. There are a lot of Germans in North Dakota, a lot around Bull Frog; you'd fit right in."

"They would not like me; they would call me a Nazi."

"Just let them try! I'd knock their heads together! I think you need a sponsor to go the States. Heck, I could sponsor you! Heck, I'd be proud to . . . "

Friedrich started to laugh. " _Danke schön_ , Herr Andrew," he said. "I was feeling sorry for myself and you — "

"I'm not joking, Friedrich," Carter said in a serious voice. "I think you should go, you and your family."

"Go to the United States! That is . . . Impossible!"

"No," Carter said. "I don't think it's impossible at all. I already invited Frau Anna to come visit my folks for the Fourth of July. Not this year, of course. But next year or the year after. She could take you and your family with her."

And Friedrich stared at him. Suddenly, his mind was filled with all sorts of fantastic dreams.

...

* * *

...

"Where the hell have you been hiding?!" Newkirk stormed when he saw Carter enter the stone room.

"What?"

"I said where the hell have you been?"

"Peter," Kinch began in a low voice.

"I mean it, Kinch! We haven't seen him in hours! I was about ready to ask Cleopatra to send a search party to look for him! So," Newkirk rounded on Carter again, "where the hell — ?"

Carter had the grace to look sheepish. "I'm sorry. I guess I didn't think . . . Look, I had something . . . I mean . . . Something happened, something I saw at that annex . . . I needed to get my head around it."

"What?" Newkirk demanded.

"Look, I'm sorry. I really am. It's just something I need to get straight in my head."

"Look, Andrew." Kinch walked over to him. "We're your friends. If there's a problem, maybe we can help."

"I know, Kinch. But I need to think it out first."

"Can you at least tell us what's wrong?" Baker asked quietly.

"It's something I did."

The others exchanged confused looks.

"I . . . I killed a little girl."

Shock covered their faces.

"You . . . you killed a little girl?" LeBeau said.

"Yeah, when the annex blew up. I killed — "

"No, you didn't," Newkirk said positively. "None of us killed — "

"Yes, I did!" Carter said with some heat. "After your cars left, I blew up the annex. And she, she stood there, and she fell . . . I killed her!"

"Andrew," Kinch tried to understand, "she fell after the annex exploded."

"Yeah. I killed . . . "

" _Nein_ ," said Friedrich quietly behind him. "I saw her fall. Our people were still firing into the street from the rooftops and buildings; the SS was firing back; there were explosions everywhere."

"That's what killed her," Kinch said in a calm voice. "It was nothing you did."

"It wasn't? I built those bombs. I . . . "

" _We_ built those bombs, Herr Andrew," Friedrich said. " _We_ were firing at the SS. We, all of us, attacked the annex." There was unexpected pity in the younger man's eyes. "We all killed her, Herr Andrew. And none of us did."

Carter turned to Friedrich. "None of us? That's — "

"Herr Andrew, what did you do when you became a prisoner?"

"What?"

Newkirk answered. "He was observing the bombardier on a mission."

"How many children were killed when the bombs fell? What city was destroyed?"

A shudder shook Carter's frame. "I . . . That's different!"

"Is it?" was the quiet rejoinder. "We are all killers here, Herr Andrew."

"I," Carter started in a choked voice.

"We are all killers," Friedrich repeated. "Even Frau Anna."

"It's not right," Carter whispered.

"It is not. And . . . it is. "

Colonel Robert Hogan chose that moment to walk into the stone room. Chose that moment to see a frozen tableau — Carter, separate from the rest, cap twisting in his hands, young Friedrich standing a couple of feet away with a peculiarly pitying expression on his face as he looked at Carter, and the rest of his men looking at Carter as if they couldn't quite understand the younger man.

Baker spotted him. "Col . . . Papa Bear! How are you, sir?"

Hogan stepped further into the room. "Okay. Bit stiff. And hungry."

That got his men moving.

"Right you are, sir," from Newkirk. He started toward the buffet table. "There's lots of food here."

"I'll," Hogan began.

"Just have a seat, sir," LeBeau said, fairly ushering him to a table.

Within seconds, two plates, one loaded with all kinds of meats and cheeses, the other with bread and pickles, and a tall stein of beer appeared in front of Hogan

"Uh, thanks," Hogan said as the others sat at an adjoining table. Well, most of the others; Carter had disappeared again.

...

* * *

...

Wilhelm Klink woke to find the room in darkness. He heard a rustling by the window and turned his head toward it.

Anna had drawn the thick dark blue drapes across the windows to block out the afternoon light. She turned on the lamp beside the bed. She wasn't surprised to find him awake.

Anna sat on the bed beside him. "How do you feel?" Her cool hand rested on his forehead.

"Still tired," Klink admitted.

"The pain?"

"Bearable."

Anna nodded. "I brought you some food."

Klink sat up with her help. "I am not certain I can eat yet."

Another nod. "At least have some bread and soup"

A faint smile. "I will try." He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face. Rough growth scratched his hands. "I need a shave."

She smiled. " _Ja_ , you do. If you eat some soup like a good boy, I will shave you."

"I am quite capable of shaving myself."

" _Ja_ , I know you are," Anna said in a teasing voice. She took his hand and led him over to the small table in front of the drapes.

Klink smiled at her. "Ever the mother, Anna,"

For an instant, there was grief in her smile.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to bring back bad memories."

" _Nein_ ," she said as she ladled the soup into a gold-rimmed bowl. "The memories are less sad. Now, I think only of the good times; they are comforting. He would have been twenty-one this year if he had lived."

"I know," Klink said softly. He picked up the spoon.

Sitting across the table from him, Anna watched him take a few sips in silence. "You still blame yourself, Wilhelm."

He looked at her.

"Do not try to deny it. It was not your fault; Georg and Friedrich wanted to go. You know that."

"I should never have given in. They were too inexperienced, too young."

She rose and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Not much younger than those who have died on the endless battlefields Hitler has led us to. At least he died for a cause he believed in. And for a man he believed in instead of that madman in Berlin."

"You've given up so much, Anna. Your son, your husband."

She knelt beside him.

"And what did you give up, my friend?" she asked softly. "Your dreams, your very soul. Friends, people you cared for, have disappeared from your life and left you alone."

He took her hand. " _Nein_ , Anna. Not alone. There are still some who matter."

She kissed his cheek and stood. "Finish your soup, my friend, and I will bring you clean clothes."

His hand on her arm stopped her. " _Nein_ , Anna."

A fleeting shadow crossed her face. "At least, let me . . . "

" _Nein_ , Anna."

"You punish yourself unnecessarily," she said softly.

"This time, it cannot be helped. Believe me; it will be worse if you remove the sweater."

"All right, Wilhelm. But promise me you will see a doctor as soon as you can."

He smiled. "That I promise."

She reluctantly smiled in return. "Then finish your soup. I will send Heinz up with a razor."

He smiled at her retreating back and turned back to his meal.

...

He had just finished eating when there was a brief knock on the door. Heinz Meyer and an attractive blonde woman in her mid forties pushing a tea cart entered.

"Heinz." Klink stood and shook his old friend's hand. "Else." He took her hand and bowed over it.

"Herr Wilhelm," she murmured as he kissed her hand. " _Danke schön_."

"Are you well? The children?"

" _Ja_ ," Else answered. "They will miss seeing you."

Klink smiled faintly. "And I miss them. They do not know — "

" _Nein, mein Herr_ , not Jutta or Kurt," Heinz said in a firm voice. "Only Brigitte and Friedrich."

"Brigitte," Klink said, his voice filled with regret. "I have not been much of a godfather to her over the past ten years."

"She understands, Herr Wilhelm," Else said softly.

"Does she?" Klink said in the same voice. "Her childhood, all of their childhoods, especially Friedrich's, have been overshadowed by a monstrous war."

" _Ja_ , they have," Heinz said in a quiet voice. He handed Klink a toiletry kit, and laid a black jacket on the bed. "It will be cold later."

"Wolfgang is still here?"

"He is in the library."

"The library," Klink murmured. "All those books."

"We have begun boxing them up to deliver to schools and libraries in the city. A few favorites have been given out to those who wish them. Are there any you would like?"

A smile. "I have always been partial to that signed first edition of Dumas' _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_."

A matching smile. "We will put it in the Junker."

" _Danke_. _Bitte_ , tell Wolfgang I will be with him shortly."

Heinz nodded.

"I will likely not see you later." He walked over to Else as she finishing putting the dishes on the cart. He took her hands in his and held them to his lips. " _Danke schön_ for all you did." A gentle kiss on her forehead. "And I am sorry for all the fear and pain my missions have caused you and your children. I pray I will see you all once this is over."

"I, too, _mein Herr_." A kiss on his cheek. " _Bitte_ , take care of yourself. Brigitte has need of her godfather when this is over."

Klink nodded. "Heinz." He held out his hand, grasping Heinz's tightly. " _Danke schön_ again. And tell Friedrich — "

"I will." A firm handshake.

"When will you leave?"

"Else and the younger _Kinder_ will leave when Frau Anna leaves. Friedrich and I will stay a little longer."

"Not too much longer, _bitte_. It is not safe."

Heinz nodded. " _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Herr Wilhelm."

" _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Heinz, Else." He released Heinz's hand and smiled at the couple as they left the room. Then, holding the toiletry kit, he walked to the adjoining bathroom.

...

An hour later, Klink came out of the bathroom, clean shaven and washed.

Anna smiled at him. "Better." She walked over and handed him a wallet filled with money and forged documents. "You will need these."

He looked at the documents for a long moment before asking quietly, "Did you give Hogan new documents as well?"

She smiled faintly as she sat on the bed. "I was wondering when you would say something."

He remained silent as he looked at her.

Her smile grew. "I told him to use his real name."

"You didn't!"

She laughed. "And he believed me! Later, he was rather chagrined when I handed him new identity papers. I was a little surprised he was so credulous."

A faint smile. "You should have heard some of the stories I told him over the years, stories he believed."

"I can imagine! One day you will have to tell me what they were." She watched as he put the wallet and papers into his pockets. "You are not pleased that he risked himself."

He stayed silent.

"Did you really expect him to stay here while you went into the lion's den?"

"I expected you and Richard to stop him from doing anything crazy."

A smile. "And how successful were you at keeping him from doing anything crazy?"

"Ah, but you and Richard have far more resources than I had."

A disbelieving laugh. "You could have stopped him any time you chose to do so."

" _Ja_." A serious look at her. "And it would probably have cost him his life."

" _Ja_ , it would. He is not the kind of man who would willingly sit in a prisoner of war camp without trying his best to escape. Nor was he willing to sit here and do nothing until it was time for our mission. Richard caught him in the wine cellar. And Richard was not pleased. Less so when he realized that Hogan had no plan other than leaving the estate."

Klink winced.

"You should have warned Hogan about Richard," Anna said.

Klink sighed. "I had hoped the warning I gave him about Hamlet's SS soldiers would have deterred him."

An unladylike snort escaped Anna, bringing a smile to Klink's face.

"One of my many mistakes," he added.

"True. At any rate, his plan did provide you with some relief, did it not?"

" _Ja_. But . . . "

"My dear friend," she said gently, "he could have been killed just as easily during the rescue as during his crazy plan. It is a dangerous war."

" _Ja_." A serious smile as he drew her up into his embrace. "For everyone." His thoughts grew morose, remembering those who had died. And those he still feared for, especially . . .

Anna felt his sudden tenseness as he held her close. "Where is she?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "I do not know. Safe, I pray."

"When did you last see her?"

"Last year," he murmured into her hair. "For a night."

"At least you had the night."

He smiled. "That is what she said."

"She is right, Wilhelm. I would have risked all for one more night with Johann. If he had died the next day, at least there would always have been that night."

"I hope after this is all over, you will finally be able to meet her, Anna."

"I hope so too, Wilhelm." She smiled up at him. "Do you remember when we first met?"

"I was not at my best when we first met."

"You did not want to be," she retorted. "You were not convinced I was the right girl for Johann. And you were determined to be unpleasant."

"I would not put it that strongly; I was determined to be neutral."

"You were that," she acknowledged dryly. "But you did not try to stop the wedding."

"I did not want to lose Johann's friendship," he said. "He did love you, that even I could see."

"But you were not certain I loved him."

"I was not certain you loved him enough," he corrected. A smile. "I was glad to be proven wrong."

"One of the rare times you were," she said, pulling away from him.

"Flatterer."

Her head shook. "You have an uncanny ability to read people, Wilhelm. You always have."

"It has served me well over the past ten years."

" _Ja_. Regrets, Wilhelm?"

"Many." A sigh. "Far too many."

"About us?" Anna asked with a gentle smile.

He looked at her, meeting her eyes. Then he shook his head slowly. " _Nein_. If things had been different, if I had not been assigned to Munich . . . "

"I know. I have no regrets about us either, Wilhelm. In time, perhaps, if you had not gone, I would have," a frankly appraising look, "enjoyed your bed — "

"I would have married you, Anna."

An affectionate smile. "I would have enjoyed that as well. But it was not to be. We have each found our way in life."

He took her hands in his. "Have you, Anna?"

She nodded, keeping her hands in his. "This insanity has given me a purpose for after the war. There are so many children without parents. After the war, they will need help. I can help."

"I know you can, Anna. But not here."

A nod. "I know, much as I wish it could be otherwise. My real assets have long since been converted to gold. And most of it is safely gone to Switzerland. As for this house," a gesture, "it is only a shell now. The books, the paintings that Johann and I loved are gone; the rest can go to schools, museums. There is little here to hold me."

"Then why not leave now?" he asked.

A smile. "There is still work to be done to close the operation and turn the rest over to Richard. But I should be gone in a week. Unless the war ends before that."

"It is near. But not that near." He held her closer. "Anna, I do love you."

A smile. "And I love you, my dearest friend." A tender kiss and she pulled away from him. "It is time for you to go and do what you must. Wolfgang is waiting for you."

A nod and another kiss. "Thank you for everything, Anna."

"And thank you for everything, Wilhelm."

Arm-in-arm, they walked to the door.

...

Hogan and his men were waiting in the stone room for Klink.

The door opened.

"Everyone who can identify me is now gone?" Klink was saying.

"Save for my people, _ja_."

He nodded

"Now, I have other duties to perform. Will I see you later?"

Klink smiled at her. "Probably not."

"Then, my friend," Anna put her arms around the man in black and held him close, "God protect you until the end of this war."

He returned the embrace. "And you, too, my friend. And remember, you must leave before — "

" _Ja_ , I know," she interrupted. " _Auf Wiedersehen_."

She kissed him again and with a nod to the others, left the room.

Wilhelm Klink's eyes stayed on the door for a moment and then, sighing, he turned back to the others in the room.

"Nice lady," Hogan said quietly.

Klink nodded. "Very. She and Johann were with me from the beginning. Now," the briskness returned to his voice, "I have an urgent task I must attend to before I can leave."

"You're joking!"

Klink shook his head. "No." He glanced at his watch. "Give me until 0400. If I am not back by then, use the airplane to go back to the camp."

"I am not letting you out of my sight!" Hogan said. "And don't even bother arguing about it," he added as Klink opened his mouth. "All you'll do is waste time."

A thin smile. "All right." Klink turned to the others. "If we are not back, Anna will help you get back to camp. Leave the airplane for us."

None too happy, the Allied soldiers nodded.

Klink opened the panel leading to the gazebo exit. "Papa Bear," he gestured, "after you."

With a quick goodbye to his men, Hogan left the room, followed by Klink.

Hogan wasn't really surprised when they joined Wolfgang and Heinz in the gardens outside. Nor was he surprised when they climbed into a truck heading to Leipzig.

...

Back in the stone room, Hogan's men stared at each other, confused and a little angry.

"Now what do we do?" LeBeau complained.

Newkirk looked around. There were only a couple of people left in the room, talking quietly in a corner. He looked at his friends and then grinned, pulling a packet from his pocket. "Poker anyone?"

...

* * *

Endnotes

1 " _Kinder_ " — children

2 "God be with you."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

March 29, 1945

The sun was low in the sky — it would be dark in another hour — and the temperature was starting to drop when the truck stopped near the Lausen tram station — the closest tram stop to the estate on the western side of Leipzig.

Heinz leaned over. "We will have the Junker fueled and waiting for you by midnight, Herr Wilhelm, in case you return to the estate early."

" _Danke_ , Heinz." Klink held out his hand. "For everything. Anna would not have been able to do what she did without your invaluable help."

Heinz nodded gravely and turned to Wolfgang. He hugged the man he had known from birth. " _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Wolfgang, to you, Luise, your _Kinder_ , Franz, Norberta, little Karla, and your Mother. _Gott schütze euch, meine Freunde_.(1)" He turned to Hogan. " _Viel Glück, mein Herr_."

Hogan murmured a goodbye as Klink pulled on a cap. Hogan did likewise as Wolfgang and Klink dropped from the back of the truck. After buying their tickets, the three men joined the waiting travelers at the station. A few minutes later, they boarded one of the trams heading into the city. Nearly twenty minutes later at Adler, they switched to another tram.

When they exited the second tram ten minutes later at a more central stop, church bells rang six times, startling Hogan.

"It is Holy Thursday," Wolfgang said quietly. "Many of the churches have services tonight."

"Will Mama attend?" Klink asked softly.

"She wanted to; I told Franz to keep her at home."

"She will not be pleased."

" _Nein_ , she will not. But she has learned when to follow our orders."

"Does he know you must all leave?"

Wolfgang nodded. "He received the evacuation order; he has already started preparing."

"Does Mama know?"

"No. I told him we would tell her together. I think however you should tell her. And no," he added, "he does not know about you."

The three men walked on. Hogan had thought the streets would be empty of pedestrians, and said as much.

Wolfgang shook his head. "Many of the factories begin the evening shifts at 1900. Between the religious services and the twelve-hour work shifts, there are many people out at this time. It will be more quiet later."

Wolfgang turned down a side street; here there were fewer people. The sun hadn't set yet, but it was very quiet in this part of the slowly darkening city. Here it was primarily residential, not far from several large parks and the Elsterbecken River, with no bombing damage that Hogan could see.

After a walk of fifteen minutes or so, the three men slipped into a dark alleyway and stopped at the back brick fence of a building in the middle of a row of townhouses.

Wolfgang quietly opened the gate leading to the yard and went inside; Klink and Hogan followed silently. They found themselves in a tidy courtyard garden behind a five-story building.

Wolfgang walked up the stairs, opened the rear door and went into the house, followed by Klink and Hogan.

...

Luise Klink nee Krämer, a brown haired woman with a worried expression, paced in the dimly lit drawing room.

"Do sit down, Luise," admonished the white haired woman in the big chair by the only working lamp in the room. "You are wearing out the carpet and frightening the children."

Luise glared at the elderly woman but nonetheless sat on the old, but well-kept couch. Her ten-year-old dark-haired son Walther put his arms around her.

"It will be all right, _Mutti_ ," he said solemnly.

"Of course, it will," Margarete Klink said forcefully as she finished sewing a button on a white shirt. "Wolfgang said he will be back after dark. You know he has been gone this long before; he will be here shortly," she said confidently.

"With some tall tale about why he is late," said blonde Norberta Klink, nee Reichmann, dryly as she rolled yarn into a ball. "Karla, there is some more yarn on the sideboard," she said to her eight-year-old equally blonde daughter. "Get it for me, _bitte_."

" _Jawohl_ , _Mutti_." Her daughter ran to the sideboard.

The tall, thin man standing at the window drew the thick blackout curtains even tighter about the window. "The moon will be full tonight," he said. "I wonder if there will be an attack."

"You always wonder, Franz," the elderly woman said in a testy voice. "With everything that you and Wolfgang do for the Resistance, I would think they could provide accurate information about upcoming bombings."

Franz laughed and walked over to her. "Mama, I think _they_ have better things to do than provide that kind of information to us."

He kissed the top of her head and returned to sit on the settee beside his wife Norberta.

Margarete hmphed loudly.

Franz picked up the newspaper he'd laid on the table next to the unlit lamp and skimmed it quickly. Nothing but Nazi propaganda with a few local sports scores thrown in. At least, he could believe those!

Footsteps sounded in the hallway; the people in the room straightened expectantly. The door opened.

"Mama." Wolfgang walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead.

Luise rose to her feet, relief on her face.

Wolfgang smiled at his wife but stayed beside the elderly woman. "Mama," he said, "I have a surprise for you."

"Surprise? You know I do not like surprises."

"Perhaps you will like this one."

Wolfgang drew aside, and another man appeared in the door. There were startled looks on the faces of the others in the room as Klink walked in and went over to the seated woman.

"Mama," he said softly, kneeling before her.

"Wilhelm?" Margarete whispered. "Wilhelm. My dearest Wilhelm!" Her hands touched his face in disbelief and then drew him closer. Wilhelm Klink buried his face in his mother's shoulder. "My dear Wilhelm," she continued to croon as she held him close.

Wolfgang went over to Luise and embraced his wife, then his son.

Franz gave him a shaky smile, his eyes turning again to his eldest brother.

They had not seen him in some time. Nor had they expected to. They knew that the camp was in the area of the Ruhr, an area held by Field Marshall Model. They knew that the Allies were advancing from the north and the south. And they knew that leaves had been canceled weeks ago. What was he doing here? Had he finally deserted?

Klink broke the embrace first, though his mother's hands stayed on her eldest's face.

Now that the shock had worn off, Margarete had questions. "You are here. But how? Did you get leave? What — ?"

"Mama," Klink said quietly, interrupting the flow of questions, "Mama, all of you must leave Leipzig tonight."

The others, save for Franz, exchanged surprised glances at his curious request as Margarete objected, " _Nein_ , this is our home. We are safe — "

"Mama," Klink said in a low, firm voice they had not heard him use in some time. "You must leave for a number of reasons."

"And what are they?" she asked in a querulous voice.

"First," he said in a low voice, "the city will be subject to heavy bombings soon." He didn't give her time to object. "Second, the city will be inside the Russian zone after the war."

"How do you know — ?" she started.

"Third. Third," he repeated over her voice, "I came back to help a friend."

"Came back?"

" _Ja_ , Mama." His voice was unusually quiet. "And now that they know what I look like, they may be able to identify me."

"They?"

"The SS." His voice became more gentle. "If they do, they will use you, all of you, against me."

"But why?" There was fear in her voice. "Did you desert?"

It was Wolfgang who answered her. "Mama, Wilhelm," his voice was proud, very proud, attracting a sharp glance from his younger brother, "Wilhelm is the Stage."

Margarete sucked her breath in sharply, her eyes searching her firstborn's face.

Klink nodded.

Margarete's gnarled hands cupped her son's face and tears formed in her eyes. Now everything she had heard and seen in the past made sense. The strange quiet and loneliness she had felt in her eldest for years took on a new and frightening meaning. Klink's hand touched his mother's as it lay on his cheek.

"We will go," Margarete said firmly after a moment.

With a faint smile, Klink stood and helped his mother rise. Then he turned toward the rest of the family gathered in the room.

Franz, his face working, walked over to Klink. As he reached his brother, he embraced the slightly taller man tightly.

As they broke apart, the two women also kissed him affectionately.

"Norberta," Klink said to her, "I am deeply sorry about your father; he was a good man and friend."

" _Danke_ , Wilhelm," His sister-in-law said with a sad smile as she turned and walked back to the couch.

Finally, the two children ran to their uncle. Ignorant of the Stage, they were just glad to see the uncle who made them laugh.

Then Walther gasped as he saw the man in the doorway who had watched the family reunion.

"This is Robert," Klink introduced. "A friend. Do not be frightened."

" _Hallo_ ," Hogan said with a charming smile as he walked into the room.

"You are welcome," Margarete greeted in a formal voice. Then she turned to her son. "When do we leave?" Only her stubborn will kept her voice from shaking.

"As soon as you can. I must leave Leipzig by 0400; you need to leave before then," Klink said. "And you can only take what you can carry with you."

Margarete's eyes swept the room. She had been born in this house, had begun her marriage here. Her eldest had been born here. Her parents had died here, and her husband had died here from wounds he had received in the last war. Every inch of this house bore memories, good and bad. And now she was to leave it.

She did not want to leave. She didn't.

But, her eyes rested on her firstborn, if they learned who he was, she would be used to trap him. Used to break him as well. She barely controlled the shudder. They must leave. This was, after all, just a building. Her children were what mattered. And she would always have her memories.

"Luise, Norberta," she said, "we must get ready. Come!" she ordered imperiously. "Karla and Walther too."

The two women, with sad smiles at the men, went to her side.

"Günter and Philipp?" Klink asked.

"The boys are sleeping; they have been working double shifts all week," Franz explained.

"Wake them," Klink said. "Then when everything is ready, you should all try to get a little sleep."

Wolfgang nodded and went to wake his sons.

"Have you any ideas about where we should go?" Franz asked his brother.

Klink nodded. "Some. But I do not want to know how you will leave or where you will go. It is too dangerous. I would, however, suggest that you split into two groups."

Franz nodded and also left the room.

"We could fly them out," Hogan suggested.

Klink shook his head. "The airplane can barely hold us. And how will we get out?"

"It's going to be dangerous for them. There does happen to be a war going on out there."

"Don't you think I know that?" Klink said, a rare note of anger in his voice. Then, "I am sorry. I am a little on edge, as you would put it."

Hogan shook his head. "I'm the one who should be sorry. It was a stupid thing to say. Your people can't — ?"

Klink shook his head. "They have their own escapes to worry about. Franz and Wolfgang have been in the underground a long time. They know what they are doing."

"Where do you think they'll wind up?" Hogan asked.

"I am not even going to guess," Klink said. "Robert, I am still very tired. If you don't mind being on your own, I am going to take a nap."

Hogan shook his head. "I don't mind. Mind if I tag along for a bit?"

Hogan could see him trying to decipher the colloquialism before Klink nodded. Hogan couldn't resist. "Sure you know what I asked?"

A faint smile. "Follow me." Klink led the way out of the room.

Klink went up to his old room at the top of the house. It was odd being back where he had spent so many years. Yet it held few of his possessions. He had taken most of his belongings with him when he was assigned to Stalag 13. His mother had scattered a few odds and ends around to make the room look less impersonal.

He walked over to the dresser; a photograph was on it. The photograph, yellowing with age, was of a severe-looking man in a uniform seated on a horse. He heard Hogan come up beside him.

"Your father?"

Klink nodded. "From his days in the cavalry. How he used to regale us with stories." Klink shook his head. "It was always stories of how glorious and wonderful war was. Not his war, incidentally, but his father's war. Why do men always glamorize war?"

"I don't know," Hogan said. "My father did the same thing."

"I just hope we don't," Klink said quietly. He put the picture down.

"You grew up here?"

Klink shook his head. "The only one who really did was Therese. We moved back here after father left the military. He opened the store, which is still in the family, and we all worked in it."

"Then you joined the army."

A nod. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had disobeyed him." A sigh. "Perhaps it was as well that I didn't. Otherwise, the Stage would not have been born."

"I doubt that."

He smiled at Hogan. "Robert, you sometimes give me more credit than I deserve."

Hogan grinned. "I'm making up for the times I gave you no credit at all."

Another smile. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to get some sleep; you should sleep too. There is an old servant's room at the end of the hall; it has a bed you can use."

A grin from Hogan. "Pleasant dreams."

Once Hogan left, Klink's fatigue and pain returned in force. Every step still sent tiny fires racing down his back. Cautiously, he lay down on the bed and forced his tense body to relax. He managed, just. But it was harder to stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. He slept finally, but fitfully.

His dreams were not pleasant. He constantly relived his treatment at the hands of the SS. Nor could his subconscious mind shake the fear that he would be recognized.

Once during one of the rare times he was sleeping soundly, the door opened silently. Margarete's lined face was streaked with tears as she watched him. Wolfgang had given her a bare outline of what had happened. She didn't press for more information. She had learned long ago not to question her sons about their Resistance activities. It was one of the few things they successfully kept from her.

As for her eldest, she had always hoped he would find his own way. She knew more than anyone what obedience to his father had meant. Wilhelm had always been a loner. He became more so after sacrificing, there was no other word, his life for his father's dreams. Even within the family, he was not always understood. Save for Therese. She always understood her taciturn brother and loved him without question. As for Margarete, she occasionally wished that her eldest was more of a man, more assertive. Now, she knew exactly what kind of a man he was.

And she cried. For all the unkind words she had said to him. And the pain she and the rest of the family must have given him. Even mothers sometimes misjudge their children. And she had misjudged him badly, and he had paid for it.

The door closed and Margarete wiped the tears away with a shaking hand; there was still much to do.

...

Klink was suddenly awake.

 _A dream_. Odd, he couldn't remember it now. But it seemed to warn of disaster. For whom? Himself? The family? He had learned to trust these strange warnings. And he sat up in bed, ignoring the pain he still felt whenever he moved.

He rose and went to the window; it overlooked the street. He drew aside the thick curtains. It was dark outside; far overhead, only the full moon provided any light, and he could see no movement in the street.

Releasing the curtains, he turned away, walked to the door, and opened it. The house was quiet, but permeated with wonderful smells, smells he remembered from happier times. He closed the door behind him and walked down the stairs.

As he reached the lower floor, the door to Wolfgang's suite of rooms opened. His brother was dressed for travel and Klink could see Luise dressing a sleepy Walther.

The door to the twins' room also opened. With youthful enthusiasm, Günter and Philipp greeted their uncle.

Klink continued down to the second floor, followed by the twins. The doors to the other bedrooms opened. Franz came out of his room just as Norberta walked out of Karla's room, holding her daughter's hand.

Down the stairs they all went; the only ones truly awake and excited were the nearly fifteen-year-old twins of Wolfgang and Luise. Klink hid a smile. To the boys, life was still a grand adventure. Perhaps it was just as well; he didn't want to frighten them. If they became afraid, it would make the journey more difficult for all of them. Children had to grow up all too quickly as it was. Let them remain children as long as they could.

In the drawing room, Wolfgang, Franz and the twins began packing knapsacks and haversacks for the upcoming trip. After their forced, and thankfully premature, evacuation in January when the Stage had been taken, Wolfgang and Franz had been preparing for such an eventuality, having decided that if they had to leave again, they would take their families with them. Given the battles in Germany and the endless bombings, they would not risk being separated again. Franz and Wolfgang had finalized their plans as the others slept briefly. Klink had given them what information he had about troop movements, both Allied and German, and then left them to plan alone. Franz and Wolfgang had discussed only generalities with each other, planning where to ultimately wind up. The specifics of their journeys, they kept secret. The fewer people who knew, the safer for all concerned. Papers at least weren't a problem. Thanks to their work with the Resistance, and Norberta's late father, a general in the Luftwaffe, they had the necessary documents to leave the city.

Feeling out of place, Hogan wandered around the large house. Klink, holding a bottle that had a long thin neck and a large bulb-like bottom, found him in the library. "Have you ever had _Gose_ , Robert?"

" _Gose_?" Hogan watched as Klink poured the liquid into a tall beer stein.

"A sour beer made from grain, a Leipzig specialty for at least two centuries." Klink poured himself a glass. " _Prosit_!" he toasted.

" _Prosit_ ," Hogan echoed and tasted. It had a tart, salty but not bitter taste. "Different." He took another sip. "Not bad."

"Wilhelm!" his mother called. "Dinner."

With faint smiles, the two men took their beer to the dining room.

A feast of the food that had been hoarded for the planned Easter dinner and could not be taken on the trip had been prepared by the three women with help from the two younger children. In the little used formal dining room, Klink sat across from Margarete at the head of the large, highly polished table. It was set with very old blue-and-white Meissen china accompanied by equally old silver cutlery and exquisite crystal. The best silver, china, and crystal used only on special occasions, and, Hogan suddenly realized, used for the last time.

As the guest, Hogan was seated next to Margarete. Two large tureens, one at each end of the table, held an aromatic stew of vegetables and crayfish. Margarete over Hogan's protests filled his bowl to the brim with " _Leipziger Allerlei_ ," as she called the stew. Freshly baked potato bread was passed around along with the long hoarded butter.

Hogan started to reach for his spoon and stopped when Margarete said in a formal voice, "Walther, the blessing, _bitte_."

And little Walther began with the sign of the cross, " _Im Namen des Vaters, des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes_ ," and continued with a thanksgiving for the food.

A simple prayer, yet to Hogan it seemed to be unusually somber. Of course, it was. Everyone knew that it was the last meal they would have together in their home. And given the hazards of the upcoming journey, who knew when they would be together again as a family?

Yet, once the prayer was done, and they began eating, the conversation turned lively. They were all doing their best to avoid thinking about the future or even bringing up the subject.

Hogan wasn't ignored. On the contrary, he was brought into the conversation as much as possible. But the talk consisted mainly of the good times they'd had as a family, so there was little for him to say. He almost wished he hadn't come. But he had no intention of leaving Klink on his own — the man got into too much trouble.

The meal ended with a _Leipziger Lerche_ , a pastry filled with, as Hogan realized when he bit into the still warm treat, almonds, nuts and, to his surprise, a cherry. And he found himself asking, "Can I have the recipe?", earning a glance from Klink. "For LeBeau," he added; Klink smiled.

When everyone was finished, Margarete insisted that the dishes be washed and put away. Whoever entered the house after they left, she said, would have no cause to say that a sloppy Hausfrau had lived there.

Her children, understanding her sorrow and her pain, made no objections, though Franz and Wolfgang exchanged furtive looks. She was leaving behind generations of memories; her parents, her grandparents and their parents had lived in this house. It was not easy for any of them to leave. It was the hardest for Margarete who insisted on washing most of the very old dishes herself.

Hogan and the children were in the room near the back door. What belongings the family would take lay scattered around.

Karla and Walther had curled up on the couch, their eyes closing. The two older boys in the midst of their packing besieged Hogan with questions about America. Hogan, with some amusement, tried to answer them.

Finally, one by one the adults wandered in, carrying coats, hats and gloves. When they were ready to leave, the additional clothes would be slipped on both adults and children. The still cold and damp weather made wearing the clothing more practical than carrying it.

Haversacks and knapsacks used for happier family outings now held food for the journey, valuables, a few more bits of clothing and precious irreplaceable pieces of their lives. The children carried schoolbags with much the same items along with a cherished toy.

Hogan was saddened and humbled by what he saw. These people were abandoning their whole lives. All of the past was crammed into a few small bags. Hogan had never really thought about the plight of the people made homeless by the war. Then he saw little Karla fighting back tears as she was forced to decide between one beloved doll or another. Or Margarete looking through the family albums, albums that went back a hundred years, holding dozens of photographs.

Hogan's eyes went to Klink as he walked through the rooms on the ground floor, pausing now and again to look at a photograph or a painting. What was Klink feeling? He alone took nothing with him. He couldn't; anything he carried might identify him.

Klink noticed Hogan's look and went over to him. "It would have happened anyway," Klink said softly. "It is just happening earlier than I anticipated."

"I'm sorry."

Klink nodded. "So am I. But Dieter and Therese took many family mementos when they went to Konstanz. As did I when I went to Stalag 13; they're down in the tunnels or at the cabin."

"Can anyone else come and get anything, like Cleopatra's people?"

There was sadness on Klink's face as he shook his head. "Franz and Wolfgang have decided to destroy the house."

"Why?"

"Better we do it than someone else," Klink said.

Hogan looked at him. "You expect someone to identify you."

Klink nodded. "This city was my home for years. I have made many trips back since I joined the military, and my name and rank are known to the authorities. They have long suspected that the Stage was a military officer and I was seen by too many people. It may take time, but it will not be impossible for them to get a reasonably accurate description of me and match it against existing records.

"Yes, in time, I do expect to be recognized. But," he nodded toward the others, "with them gone, it will not matter. Not at this point in the war."

Hogan felt a sudden uneasiness, the same uneasiness that had awakened Klink earlier. "The sooner we get out of here, the better I'll like it."

He was surprised to hear Klink say softly as he walked away, "So will I."

...

Klink wandered into the closed room off the drawing room on the main floor; Hogan followed. Klink flicked the light switch. Only one dim light went on; it rested on a proud old upright piano.

Klink put the cup of coffee he held on the adjacent table and sat down on the piano bench. He lifted the lid of the piano and ran his fingers lightly over the surface of the keys. Not a speck of dust. He touched the keys, testing them softly. Still in tune.

Hogan walked closer. "Do you play?"

"It was my first instrument," Klink said softly. "And my favorite."

The first soft almost plaintive notes sounded.

 _I know that piece,_ Hogan thought. _Klink used to have a record. What was its name? Something by Schubert. "Ständchen"(_ _2)_. . .

 _Not a record_ , he suddenly realized as the beautiful melody continued. Klink had been the one playing . . .

Little Karla appeared at the door and walked inside. Then Norberta, a sweater in her hand, came and sat down, drawing her daughter close.

Margarete entered, followed by Luise.

One by one, the rest of the family entered the room. Franz walked over to his seated wife and daughter. Then Wolfgang and Walther went to stand behind Luise. The twins were the last to enter; they sat cross-legged on the floor beside their parents. Margarete sat in a chair close to her playing son.

Hogan felt . . . He didn't know what he felt as he watched the changing expressions on the faces of the family before him. There was joy, joy at hearing Klink play — a frequent occurrence, Hogan realized, whenever Klink was able to visit. Love, love for each other and for the man seated at the piano. And pain, pain at leaving a home they all loved, a home they would never return to.

And Hogan found himself envying them . . . And felt almost unbearable sadness as he watched them.

The music ended on a quiet melancholy note.

"Wilhelm," Margarete, her voice throbbing with emotion, broke the silence that followed. " _Bitte_ , my favorite."

Another softly beautiful piece began. And Walther with a little prompting by his mother, began in a sweet soprano voice, " _Ave Maria, gratia plena_ . . . " Then Karla joined in. A rosary appeared in Margarete's gnarled hands

 _It's a prayer_ , Hogan realized.

Wolfgang's baritone joined in, then Luise's soft soprano. And one by one, the rest of the family, including the teenage twins, joined in.

When the achingly beautiful music ended, there were tears in nearly every eye.

And Margarete broke down. Klink stood, walked over to his mother and held her close.

And Hogan, feeling more alone than he'd ever felt before, left the family to their grief.

...

* * *

Endnotes

1 "Godspeed, my friends."

2 M. Hughes: _Dress Rehearsal_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

March 29, 1945

In the end, perhaps it had been inevitable or unavoidable. But none of them had expected trouble this night. And it had come. It came in the form of a man. A man they had known. A man who had little reason to like them.

He had always been a troublesome child, Margarete remembered, stealing odds and ends from the store, playing cruel tricks on those younger and weaker than he. He had been thrashed more than once by the older boys for his petty crimes. As an adult, he had quickly embraced the brutal tenets of Nazism. And now he wore the uniform of an SS lieutenant.

He had gotten in through the unlocked back door. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he was here, pointing a pistol at Klink's back.

...

In the WC, Robert Hogan dried his hands on a towel. Hanging the towel on the rack, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He grimaced. The few hours of sleep he'd gotten since attack on the annex did nothing to relieve the shadows under his eyes. He was tired, and still not at his best. That beating a seeming lifetime ago still resounded in his muscles. Between that and the fatigue, he was moving slower than he liked. A yawn slipped out. Definitely, not at his . . .

A faint scream cut into his thoughts. What the . . . ?

His hand was on the doorknob when caution intruded. If someone had had an accident, there would be sounds of alarm and activity. But it was eerily quiet out there. Too quiet.

Slowly, soundlessly, he opened the door. He could just make out a harsh voice. A stranger's voice. Even more quietly, he stepped into the hallway, his fatigue forgotten. Now his senses strained to see, to hear, what was causing that surreal silence. And that harsh voice.

...

"I am surprised to see you, Herr Kommandant," Obersturmführer Hermann Schmitt said in an official-sounding voice. "I was not aware that your camp had been evacuated."

"I am flattered that you are interested in a lowly POW Stalag, Herr Obersturmführer," Klink said in a fawning voice, drawing sharp glances from his family. "Surely a rising SS officer has more important things to be concerned about."

"The SS is always concerned with those who do not do their duty."

"And you believe I have failed in my duty?"

"You are here, Klink, and not at your camp."

"Easily explained, Herr Obersturmführer," Klink said in an amiable voice. "The camp had been ordered to evacuate. However, the Allies interrupted the evacuation; I was fortunate to escape."

"Considering your reputation, Klink," Schmitt said, contempt dripping with each word, "you could not escape from a Hitler Youth gathering, let alone a camp filled with Allied prisoners and surrounded by Allied soldiers."

"Then how do you account for my being here? And why are you pointing a gun at me?" Klink asked. "Or do you always point a gun at a superior officer, Herr Obersturmführer?"

The mild sarcasm in Klink's voice brought a flush to Schmitt's face. "Perhaps, Herr Kommandant," the scorn was even more evident now, "you are not what you appeared to be."

An exaggerated sigh. "And you, Herr Obersturmführer, have grandiose visions of glory in your head. My escape is easily explained. Germans loyal to the Reich helped me leave the area. As a prison camp Kommandant, I would hardly wait for the Allies to arrive."

"And this? Why this flight?"

"Because we can see the end coming even if you cannot," Franz said smoothly. "We are getting away from the Russians."

"Even if I accept any of that as true," Schmitt said in a stiff voice, "there remains one problem."

"And that is?"

Hogan, in the hallway outside the room, could hear the change in Klink's tone.

"Yesterday morning, a man infiltrated an SS building to rescue a Resistance leader. He was caught, of course."

"Of course," Klink said in an ironic murmur.

Schmitt flushed. "While he was being interrogated, there was an attack and he escaped in the confusion. But before the escape, he was identified as the traitor known as the Stage.

"And, Klink," Schmitt's voice changed from that of an annoying bully to an unexpectedly dangerous enemy, "your appearance and clothes match his description. I recognized you immediately!"

A soft, "You did?"

A brutal smile crossed Schmitt's face. "There is one way to make certain, Klink."

"And how is that?"

Klink was playing for time, Hogan, moving silently toward the room, realized.

"Your shirt, Klink. Remove it. Now!"

His family looked at each other, startled at the unusual order.

"Or do I tear it from your back?" Schmitt was openly gloating, sensing victory.

Slowly, Klink's hand lifted to the zipper at the neck of his sweater. Even more slowly, the zipper slid down, baring his chest. Schmitt was sneering as his left hand lifted to the back of Klink's sweater, his right hand aiming the gun at Klink's back. His family watched in confusion, not knowing what was going on.

Hogan was just as confused as he inched his way into the parlor. _What happened in that prison? What didn't he tell anyone?_

Schmitt yanked the sweater down Klink's shoulders and back. The bleeding stripes had stuck to the fabric; now they were torn open by the pull.

There were gasps of surprise and horror from the watching family. Luise hid her face in Wolfgang's shoulder, her husband's face flushing with anger as he saw the bleeding stripes. The twins to whom Resistance was an adventurous game blanched as they were confronted by the reality of what happened to someone who was caught. The two younger children hid their faces in their parents' clothes, frightened by the awful marks on their uncle's back. Franz, after a start, kept his eyes on his brother's impassive face. Norberta had moved convulsively, but now stood frozen beside her husband, holding Karla tightly. And Margarete paled at the horror her eldest risked every day of his life, her hands clenched tightly to her breast.

Hogan — Hogan was furious at Klink for not saying anything.

"The Stage was whipped before he was placed on the rack, Klink!" Schmitt's voice was triumphant, oblivious to the pain he had caused the man before him and the pain he caused the family listening to his words.

Klink's expression was controlled; only a flicker of his eyes betrayed the pain he had felt when the wounds were reopened.

"What now, Hermann?" Klink asked in a calm voice.

"I will call headquarters," Schmitt continued gleefully. "They will promote me for handing the Stage over to them. This time, you will not escape. Not while we have them!" Schmitt gestured toward the horrified family. "This time, you will talk. You are able to watch the torture of an old man. And you are able to withstand torture yourself. But I doubt if you will show the same fortitude if it is your mother on the rack. Or the children."

The parents drew their children closer, terrified for them.

" _Ja_ , the great Stage will talk," Schmitt continued. "And maybe after you are finished, we may kill you quickly. Though I doubt it," he added with a sneer. "With all the trouble you caused, you deserve a slow death."

But his chilling words seemed to have no effect on Klink. "Now you will call headquarters?" He could have been inquiring about a dinner reservation.

" _Ja_ ," Schmitt said. "I warn you, don't . . . "

To the family's astonishment, Klink smiled. And slowly, shrugging his sweater back on, he turned to face Schmitt.

Schmitt took a startled step backwards. It was Wilhelm Klink he had surprised; it was the Stage he now faced.

"You really are stupid, aren't you, Hermann?" Again the smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Don't move." Schmitt's mouth was suddenly dry as his gun aimed at Klink.

Klink shook his head. "That only works if someone is afraid of dying," Klink said in a soft voice. "I stopped being afraid of death a long time ago." His eyes stayed on Schmitt's. "I do hope you are prepared to kill me, Hermann," he said, seeing Hogan creep behind Schmitt. "Because I have no intention of being taken alive. Not this time. And I advise you not to miss because you will not be given another chance.

"I do hope you are also prepared to die, Hermann," the soft tones continued, his eyes boring in on Schmitt's. "Because if I don't kill you, they will."

Hogan was almost within reach of Schmitt.

Schmitt was bewildered. It wasn't going the way he had dreamed. The Stage or rather Klink should be cowering. All of them should be. Then he realized how close Klink was to him. "Don't!" he cried. "Or I'll kill them!" His gun swung wildly to the side.

And Hogan was on top of Schmitt, wrenching the gun up and away from the others.

It was over in seconds as Klink reached the struggling pair. As Hogan kept the gun away from the others, Klink caught Schmitt's left arm and exerted pressure. Schmitt screamed as his shoulder was twisted up. He slumped to the rug, the gun ending up in Hogan's hand. Hogan knelt beside him, the weapon pressed against Schmitt's temple.

There was naked fear and pain on Schmitt's face. "You will kill me?" he said, his voice trembling.

Klink almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "Not yet," Klink said. His hand moved around Schmitt's neck, firmly exerting pressure.

Schmitt, a startled look on his face, crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

The others had reached them, and now Hogan had time . . .

"You!" he began furiously.

"Not now," Klink said as he stood, his glance shutting Hogan up. "If this fool managed to recognize me, so could others." He turned to his brothers. "Half an hour, no more."

The two men nodded grimly.

"And this?" Franz poked Schmitt's inert form with a foot.

"I will have someone pick him up," Klink said. "Set the timers for exactly one hour."

Wolfgang nodded.

"Robert." Hogan looked at him. "Take his uniform coat and put it on. If there is a car outside, take it and drive it across the river to the central city. Then leave it and the uniform somewhere and return to the Lausen stop; you can call the estate from there, though I suspect Heinz will already have a car waiting for you. You wait only until," a glance at his watch, "0400. If I do not show up by then, take the airplane and head back to camp."

"Now wait a minute!" Hogan began.

Klink continued inexorably. "Do not bother waiting. Unless I can make it back there by then, I will not try for the estate. I will get back to camp another way."

"I am not . . . !"

The eyes swung to him. "Do I have to make it an order, Colonel?" the Stage asked mildly.

Startled, Hogan's eyes met his. A deep breath. "No, sir, you don't. But," Hogan said, "if we don't hear from you in a few days, I'm coming back to look for you."

A faint smile. "Agreed."

Klink walked over to the telephone. He dialed a number and hung up after a few seconds. He repeated the process. Then he spoke, "Package, basement, forty-five. Understood? . . . _Gut_." He hung up. "Günter?"

"Sir?" The white-faced boy looked at him.

"I need some dirt from the garden. Take it upstairs after you get it."

" _Jawohl, Onkel_." Openly puzzled, the boy left.

"Dirt?" Hogan asked, slipping the SS coat over his own.

Klink nodded. "I need to change; I am too easily identified in these clothes. In the meantime, take him to the basement and tie him up."

He left the room.

Franz turned to Wolfgang. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked heatedly.

A sad smile. "Because he never said what they did to him. Give me a hand with this fool."

Together, the two men lifted Schmitt's unconscious body and headed for the basement. Norberta and Luise hurried their children to the sofa to finish their preparations.

Unnoticed, Margarete slipped out of the room.

...

Wilhelm Klink opened the door of his bedroom and walked over to the closet. Some of his old clothes still hung there. He picked out a muddy colored wool shirt and a dark nondescript warm jacket. From a shelf, he pulled down an old cap, wincing as he did so. He threw the clothes onto the bed and, ignoring the pain every movement caused, started to take off his sweater.

Margarete came in, carrying a basin of water and some towels.

He stopped, the sweater half off. Then, as she put the basin on the dresser, he removed the sweater and faced his mother.

Margarete could see the bruises from the earlier beatings and old scars from old wounds. And, deep in his eyes, she saw the pain he still felt. Her hands shaking, she wet one of the towels and walked over to her son. "Sit," she said in a no-nonsense voice.

Klink sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

She gently bathed the ugly stripes on his back, the cool water relieving some of the pain. As the bleeding stopped, she gently patted his back dry with another towel.

"You must be . . . careful . . . not to get an infection." Her voice broke.

Klink turned to her. "Mama." His arms slipped around her waist, his head buried against her chest.

Margarete held her son's head to her breast, tears sliding down her face.

For a little while, Klink let himself be held. For a little while, he was just Willi with a painful scrape being comforted by his mother.

Finally, he broke the embrace and wiped the tears off her face with his fingers.

"Will," tears threatened again; she forced them down, "will I see you again?"

He couldn't lie to her. "I do not know, Mama. _Gott_ willing . . ."

" _Ja_ ," she touched his face, " _Gott_ willing."

Margarete broke away from him and put the towels on the dresser. She caught sight of the picture of her husband and picked it up. "I should have stood up to him, Wilhelm. In time, he would have come around."

Klink stood up. "It is in the past, Mama." Wincing, he picked up the shirt and put it on.

"But you were not happy. You have never been happy in the military. I knew that. I think he did too."

"What is done is done, Mama." He buttoned the shirt. "And," a small smile, "in the military, I have learned skills I needed to survive."

"As the Stage," she said in a trembling voice.

" _Ja_." He looked at the picture in her hand. "I wonder what he would have thought of the Stage."

"I think," Margarete said in a tremulous voice, "he would have been very proud to have such a son. I think he would finally have understood the kind of man his son was."

"That is all I ever wanted from him." Klink turned away, the memories were now too painful.

"And it was what he could not give," Margarete said. "I did not always understand either. Forgive us both, if you can."

He turned back to her. "I did. Years ago."

He held out his arms. Margarete went into them and held her son close.

There was a knock on the door and Hogan entered. Margarete broke away from her son, wiping the tears away as she turned.

"I'm ready to leave," Hogan said.

Klink nodded. "Do you remember the way back?"

"Yeah. Just make sure you do." He walked closer. "How's the back?"

"Tolerable."

A slight smile. "Your son, _gnädige Frau_ , is a very stubborn man." Then, "0400." Hogan held up his hand.

"Or the camp."

Their hands grasped as in the cave.

"I'm holding you to that, Wilhelm," Hogan said softly.

"And, I, you, Robert."

 _To the end_ , their eyes promised once again.

Hogan broke the clasp. " _Gnädige Frau_." He nodded goodbye and left the room.

Klink continued to look after him.

"Wilhelm?"

" _Ja_?"

"You said Colonel earlier. He is Colonel Hogan? The prisoner of war?"

A faint smile. " _Ja_ , Mama."

"But you were always having trouble with him. Now he is a friend?"

Klink nodded.

"Because he knows you are the Stage?"

Klink shook his head. "We started to become friends while we were still enemies."

"But how?"

A small smile. "That story will have to wait, Mama, until our next meeting. Now, we must leave." Klink opened the door.

Günter waited outside with a pail full of dirt; he had not wanted to disturb his uncle and grandmother.

Klink picked up the cap and jacket.

" _Danke_ , Günter," Klink said, scooping up a handful of dirt and to Günter's surprise, began rubbing it on the clothes he wore as well as the jacket and cap. "How were your violin lessons coming?"

"Fine, _Onkel_ ," Günter smiled, adding what would once have produced stifled laughter from Hogan, "I hope to play as well as you someday."

A smile as Klink rubbed dirt on his face and hands. "Do I look enough like a laborer?" he asked his audience. "If I walk bent over as well."

"From a distance, sir," Günter said critically.

A dry smile. "I do not intend getting close to anyone." Then his tone changed. "It is time to leave."

He started out the door, and then hesitated. He walked back to the dresser and removed the picture from the frame. "Mama," he handed it to her, "take this with you until we meet again."

"I thought you did not like this picture."

"Perhaps I never understood him either," Klink said softly. "Perhaps, the picture will help."

She took the photograph. "All right, Wilhelm."

Together, they walked down the stairs.

...

Robert Hogan walked down the backstairs to the basement.

Hermann Schmitt was sitting in semi-darkness, gagged and tied to a wooden chair. He had regained consciousness and was peering around with wild eyes. Then he saw Hogan approach, wearing his SS coat and carrying his Luger. Schmitt's eyes widened even more as Hogan stood before him. Hogan loosened Schmitt's gag enough so he could talk in a faint voice.

"I have a question for you," Hogan said. "At the SS building, I saw several bodies in German uniforms hanging in the inner courtyard."

"Traitors. They deserved worse than death."

"So you were there."

"It was a pleasure to see them . . ." He stopped as he saw Hogan's face.

"He was right; you really are a fool. I've got news for you, Schmitt. In my book, you're the traitor. And, yeah, traitors deserve death." Hogan lifted the Luger and pointed it at Schmitt's head. "You know what the funny part of this is. I think _He_ might have let you live, even though you're a threat to him. I'm not as forgiving. You're a danger to him as long as you live, and I can't allow that. Say your prayers, if you know any."

Schmitt's eyes went wide with fear.

And Hogan fired.

 _He's not going to like this . . . And he doesn't have to know._

Hogan walked slowly up the stairs.

At the top, Wolfgang, holding a Walther, stood. "Is he . . . ?"

Hogan glanced back. "Yeah."

Wolfgang nodded. " _Danke schön_."

Hogan smiled thinly. "Good luck on the trip." He started to walk away. And stopped, turning back to Wolfgang. "Look, I know some folks in Allied intelligence. I don't want to know specifics, but where do you hope to end up? Who knows? Maybe I can help unofficially."

Wolfgang considered briefly. Then he said, "Göttingen, we hope to meet in Göttingen. Norberta's father lived there for months before he died. If the Americans are not there, we will continue heading west if we can safely do so."

Hogan nodded and went out the back door.

...

Their farewells were all too brief and tearful. Margarete held her eldest tightly, wondering if she would ever see him again. Wondering if she would ever have her family together again.

But they had to leave. Gently, Klink broke the embrace and kissed her one last time. With a faint smile, he headed up to the top of the house. He would leave via the rooftops. Moments later, the family went out the back of the house, splitting into two groups. Franz, Norberta and their daughter Karla took Margarete with them. Wolfgang and his family would take another route.

From the moonlit rooftop in the middle of the block, Wilhelm Klink watched his family split up and leave in different directions. For a moment, tears misted his eyes as he wondered if he would ever see them again.

He started toward the adjacent roof. And stopped. He couldn't leave, not yet. He couldn't leave what was his problem, his task, to another, no matter how much he abhorred the only solution to it. He walked back to the roof entrance.

...

Holding a flashlight, Klink walked down the cellar stairs. And stopped. He could smell it. Faint, very faint, but unmistakable. Blood. God knew he'd smelt it enough!

He continued down the steps. Before he reached the bottom, his light found what he dreaded to see.

He walked over to Schmitt's body and lifted Schmitt's fallen head. Blood from the hole in his forehead had flowed grotesquely down Schmitt's face. His eyes were still open. With a sigh, Klink closed the eyes and gently let Schmitt's head drop down to his chest.

 _Poor fool. And my unwitting savior. If he hadn't hated us, me, so much, if he hadn't wanted recognition so much, he could have had it all. Now . . . May God have mercy on your soul._

Finding a rag on an adjacent table, Klink picked it up and wiped the blood from his fingers. He dropped the rag and walked up the stairs, intending to head for the roof.

A sound from the back door stopped him. Cleopatra's people. He'd forgotten . . .

He went quickly to the door and bolted it. He heard a muffled curse outside.

"'Wither'd is the garland of . . . war, the soldier's pole is fall'n',[1]" he intoned loudly in English. And switched to German, "The package has been destroyed. _Verstanden_?"

Silence for a moment, then, " _Verstanden_."

Klink waited a moment by the door. And headed hurriedly up the backstairs to the roof. There, slipping silently onto the adjacent roof, he disappeared into the darkness.

Ten minutes later, to the shock of the neighbors, the house imploded.

...

* * *

Endnotes

1 Shakespeare: _Anthony and Cleopatra_


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

March 29, 1945

"Where's Andrew?" James Kinchloe asked, glancing at his watch. Almost eleven or 2300 hours as the military would call it. Their young friend had disappeared a couple of hours ago after playing a few halfhearted hands of poker.

"Who cares?" Peter Newkirk muttered, stretching his arms over his head, as he stood up from the table they'd been using.

Richard Baker looked at him in surprise, as did Kinch.

Newkirk saw their looks, annoyance on his face. "He's been moping like he lost his kid brother or something. You'd think it was the first time he'd seen anyone killed. Hell, we killed how many at that annex? How many on other missions? What the hell is his problem?"

"It was the first time he'd seen a child die," Kinch said quietly.

"Well, it's not the first time a kid died in this stinking war! I saw dead kids during the Blitz!"

"They didn't die because of something you did," Kinch said.

"Neither did that kid! At least, not directly," he was forced to add. "He's got no reason to act the way he's doing!"

"Neither do you," Kinch said pointedly. "So, why are you?"

Newkirk opened his mouth, and closed it as, to the surprise of Hogan's men, a pretty dark-haired girl ran into the stone room from the hall door; she looked liked she was ten years old, if that. She was in what appeared to be a too large nightgown with a coat thrown over it.

" _Vati_!" Then she caught sight of the four strange men staring at her and stopped half way into the room. "Oh!".And her eyes grew wide.

" _Hallo_ ," Kinch greeted with a smile, not too sure how she'd react to the color of his or Baker's skins. She couldn't have seen a colored face before.

" _Hallo_ ," she said in a shy, uncertain voice.

"Are you lost, _mon petite_?" LeBeau asked with a wide smile, deflecting her attention from his black friends.

" _Nein_ ," she muttered. "I am — "

The wooden door from the other room opened and a still unshaven Heinz came into the room. "Jutta? _Was ist los_? You should be asleep, _Kleines_."

Jutta ran to him. " _Mutti_ told Brigitte that Herr Wilhelm was here, _Vati_. I wanted to say _Guten Abend_ to him!" she said to the surprise of Hogan's men.

His arms went around her. "That is very nice of you, Jutta. _Aber_ Herr Wilhelm had to visit his Mama tonight. And when he comes back, he must leave right away."

Disappointment clouded her face. "Can he have breakfast with us first, _Vati_? He has not seen us in a long time. I want to see him again. So does Brigitte."

"You know he is a very secret soldier, Jutta. He cannot always do what we would like him to do." Heinz knelt before her. "Does _Mutti_ know you are here?"

A guilty look was his answer.

"Jutta," Heinz's voice took on a stern note, "you know better. It is not safe for you to be out alone after dark."

" _Aber_ there are no planes now."

"That is what your friend Gudrun thought!" There was anger and sorrow in Heinz's voice. "And she died!"

Hogan's men exchanged startled looks.

Tears started to form in Jutta's eyes. "I am sorry, _Vati_ ," she said in a trembling voice.

Heinz held his daughter close. "I am too, Jutta."

The door opened and Bruno, huge, imposing and looking like he would tear everyone limb from limb, stood there, staring at all of them.

"Bruno," Heinz said, "can you take Jutta home?"

A rare smile softened the fearsome features, and he nodded. But his hands moved, telling Heinz something.

"I will be there shortly," Heinz said.

A nod from the immense man as he walked over to Heinz and his daughter, and towered over them.

"Now, go home, Jutta. Say your prayers and go to sleep," Heinz said. "There will be no planes tonight to disturb you." He kissed her.

Jutta threw her arms around her father. " _Gute Nacht, Vati_."

He gave her another hug and stood as she asked Bruno, "Can we go out to the gazebo, Herr Bruno?"

Bruno glanced at Heinz before nodding. A happy smile lit her face and she skipped to the panel exit.

"Bruno." Heinz signed something; Bruno nodded and then opened the access to the tunnels.

Heinz smiled after them for a moment before looking at Hogan's men.

"How many children do you have?" Kinch asked in a serious voice.

"Four, two girls and two boys."

Four! The Allied soldiers looked at each other as they mulled over his answer. They'd thought . . . They'd thought the Resistance people they'd met had no families, no responsibilities. How could they . . . ?

Friedrich entered from the tunnel entrance. " _Vater_ ," he started.

"He's your father?" from LeBeau. He suddenly remembered the orders Heinz had given them in the truck that took them to the annex. Friedrich had been one of the first out of the truck when they arrived at the alley behind the buildings where some of them would be stationed. There had been no softness in Heinz's voice, no hint of emotion as he gave the teams their final orders — no acknowledgement that he might be sending his son to his death. LeBeau's respect for the steward rose immeasurably. And LeBeau wondered if he would have had the courage to do what Heinz had been doing for years if his family was at risk.

Friedrich glanced at him. " _Ja_." And turned back to Heinz. " _Vater_ , the explosives under the barn?"

"There is no rush," Heinz said. "They will keep until tomorrow night. The next fodder shipment to Macbeth is scheduled to go on _Sonntag_. The explosives will be going out with it."

" _Montag_ , _Vater_. _Sonntag_ is Easter."

A faint smile. "I had forgotten."

A matching smile. " _Mutti_ did not. She and Brigitte have the parlor filled with decorations for the estate's Easter celebration."

A sigh. "Which means that tomorrow our house will be filled with nearly every woman from the estate doing whatever your mother has planned."

"A good time to begin packing the explosives," Friedrich said, rubbing his bad leg.

" _Ja_." A frown. " _Setz dich bitte einen Moment hierher_.(1)"

" _Vater_ ," Friedrich began.

" _Bitte_."

Friedrich sighed, sat down, and pulled up his left pant leg.

"Those look like shrapnel scars," Kinch said in a low voice. "Were you in combat?"

" _Nein_ ," Heinz said as he knelt and carefully massaged his son's leg. "A failed mission when he was sixteen."

"Sixteen!" from LeBeau.

" _Ja_. He almost lost the leg." Heinz continued kneading the muscles. "But he was lucky."

"Lucky!"

Heinz looked up at them, and said to their shock, "Frau Anna's son died from his wounds."

"How old was he?" Baker asked in a subdued voice.

"Georg was two days older than I," Friedrich said, pulling down his pant leg. " _Danke_ , _Vater_."

Heinz nodded and stood. "Rest it a little more, _bitte_. We do not want to upset your mother." He looked at Hogan's men. "You should all sleep after you eat something."

Newkirk looked at the empty buffet table.

" _Nein_ , upstairs," Heinz said. "We are closing these rooms now. Save for yourselves, all outsiders are gone. There are empty bedrooms in the servants' quarters of the house you can use."

"I will close the rooms, _Vater_ ," Friedrich said. "After I rest a little," he added with a faint smile.

Heinz nodded. "If you will follow me, _meine Herren_." Heinz opened the door to the basement hallway.

"One moment, _bitte_ ," Kinch said. "Do you know where Andrew is?" he asked Friedrich.

"He should be in the kitchen," Friedrich said, stretching his leg and flexing the muscles. "I showed him where to enter from the garden."

" _Danke_."

The men followed Heinz out of the stone room and into the now dark basement hallway; Heinz switched on his flashlight.

" _Langsam_ , _meine Herren_ , _bitte_ ," Heinz said when they reached the stairs. "It is easy to fall on these steps."

At the top of the staircase, he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the sturdy wooden door.

"Friedrich is closing the downstairs rooms?" LeBeau said as they stepped into the small hall at top of the stairs.

Heinz nodded.

"What if someone needs to come in?" LeBeau asked. "Like Papa Bear or — " He stopped, not knowing what to call him.

"Herr Wilhelm?"

LeBeau nodded.

"He knows how to enter the house without the tunnels. As for your Papa Bear, if he was alone, he would be spotted and stopped long before he reaches the house."

"And killed?" Newkirk added in an angry tone.

Heinz looked at him with surprise and led the way into the huge old-style kitchen. "We do not kill without cause, _mein Herr_ ," he said in a mild voice. "Especially a friend of Herr Wilhelm's. The men know who he is."

After a moment's pause, Newkirk mumbled, "Sorry," as Heinz turned on the bright chandelier lights.

Ignoring Newkirk's still noticeable belligerence, LeBeau looked around with interest. The kitchen was a mix of old and new. Substantial wooden beams on the ceiling, stone work — some finished like bricks, others still rough stones — on walls, massive wooden shutters covering the windows, a fireplace with cooking spits, huge stove dating back to the last century, yet there were modern appliances also half hidden by wood paneling that was weathered to look old. In the center, a massive worktable with stools around it was lit by an impressive chandelier. Cast iron cookware of every conceivable size hung from the ceiling beams or on walls . A sigh. A place like this would be the envy of any first class restaurant.

"Oh, hi, guys." Andrew Carter entered from the adjoining pantry, carrying an oversized silver platter loaded with a dozen gold-rimmed white and floral Meissen plates, crystal glasses, silver cutlery and several sharp knives. He was accompanied by a lovely blonde teenage girl who carried a large wooden platter filled with assorted meats and cheeses.

"Hi, guys!" Newkirk started in a belligerent voice, and shut up as LeBeau kicked him in the ankle. "What the . . . " He started to retort and closed his mouth as the girl looked at him curiously.

She placed the platter on the table and smiled shyly at the men.

"Brigitte!" Heinz started in an exasperated tone. "Are all my daughters out when they should be at home?"

An impish smile. "You only have two daughters, _Vati_. Jutta is almost home; we saw her in the garden with Bruno. _Mutti_ wanted to make sure Frau Anna's guests were fed before they rest. Frau Ziegler and Grünewald are asleep and Bruno has other duties, so I came." She kissed her father's unshaven cheek before returning to the pantry.

Heinz shook his head and went to a large keg in the corner. " _Bier, meine Herren_?"

" _Danke_ ," Kinch said. " Where do you keep the mugs?"

"There," Heinz nodded.

Kinch and Baker pulled half a dozen antique beer steins from a cabinet and placed them on the worktable. Heinz put a couple of large pitchers of beer there as well.

"Help yourselves, _meine Herren_ ," Heinz said, pouring beer into one of the decorated mugs, and taking a sip, as Brigitte returned with a tray of several loaves of bread, butter and condiments for the food.

"And you, too, _Vati_ , and Friedrich." Brigitte smiled at Friedrich as he came into the kitchen and took another mug from the cabinet. "The Good Friday fast and abstinence begins in," she glanced at the old clock on the fireplace mantel, "thirty-five minutes."

"I had forgotten," Friedrich said. He sliced a large piece of the round crusty _Bauernbrot_ bread, slathered it with mustard and put it on a plate.

"Hmph!" said his sister. "You never remember!" She passed him a plate of cheeses and sliced meats.

He smiled at her as he put generous slices of both on the bread. "I don't have to remember. You remember for me!"

"Fast?" Carter asked Baker in a low voice. "What's a fast? And abstinence?"

"I'm not sure," Baker admitted.

"Something religious," Kinch said. "But I don't know what."

"We are Catholics," Heinz said as he wrapped a slice of the _Bauernbrot_ and a chunk of cheese in a napkin and put it into a deep pocket. "Most of us on the estate are. We do not eat meat on Fridays and sometimes other days; that is abstinence. The fast is eating only one full meal a day on certain days. We have been granted a dispensation by the bishop from most fasts because of what we do. But," a shrug, "most Germans, with the scarcity of foods and rationing, find themselves fasting for reasons that have nothing to do with religion. We here are spared that."

"The rationing does not affect you?" LeBeau said as he took some of the meats and cheeses. He sniffed one of the cheeses — Limburger: odoriferous but good.

"Frau Anna has been bribing the big Nazis for years, so she is in favor with them. The rules that apply to normal people do not apply to her, and by extension, to us. But we also grow and raise most of what we eat." A faint smile. "And we grow much more than the Nazis know. The excess is given to churches and hospitals around the city"

"What happens when you leave?" Baker asked.

"That will not happen yet," Heinz said as Friedrich made a face. "Frau Anna has been given permission to bring more French laborers to work the land. They will stay here until the war ends. Afterwards, the Americans and later the Soviets will decide what to do with the estate."

"Not very fair," Carter said.

"What does fairness have to do with war, Herr Andrew?" Heinz asked. "If you will excuse me, I have other duties. Friedrich will show you where you can sleep. And you, _Liebchen_ , are going home." He took Brigitte's arm to lead her away.

Then the telephone beside the pantry door rang, one of its lines lighting up, startling everyone.

Friedrich, a far too serious look on his lean face, put his half-eaten sandwich down on a plate, as Brigitte, her eyes wide with dread, took his hand, holding it tightly.

Heinz, his face expressionless, went over to the phone, as Hogan's men stopped moving and looked at him. Heinz, to their surprise, let it ring five times. Then it stopped; Heinz waited by it. It rang again. On the fourth ring, he picked it up. " _Ja_." He listened for a minute, not saying a word. Then he hung up."

"Something wrong?" Kinch said.

"The Klink house has been destroyed."

"Destroyed!" from LeBeau.

" _Ja_. We sent two men to pick up a package at the house. They were ordered away by a voice they did not recognize. The men waited a few minutes and saw the house collapse on itself."

"What!" were the surprised exclamations.

"We've got to see . . . " Carter began.

" _Nein_ , it is all right. The voice used Cleopatra's code and then told them that the package had been destroyed, so it is _gut_."

"But they could be trapped!" Carter objected.

Heinz shook his head. "Wolfgang and Franz destroyed the house themselves. They had wired it after the January incident in case they had to leave again. They said they would take the whole family with them next time. That is why Herr Wilhelm went with Wolfgang."

"To destroy their home," Carter murmured. "Wow."

"Won't that attract attention to them?" Baker asked.

Heinz shrugged. "It will be called a gas leak. Leipzig has had many since the bombings."

Tears had filled Brigitte's eyes. "They are gone? All of them?"

Heinz took her hand. " _Ja_."

"We will never see them again?" she said, longing and pain in her voice.

"Never is a long time, Brigitte. There is always hope."

"Hope." The word almost sounded like a curse.

"Brigitte." Heinz touched her shoulder gently as she blinked back her tears.

"At least now we have a timetable for your Colonel and Herr Wilhelm," Friedrich said, picking up his sandwich.

"Sorry?" LeBeau said.

"They are coming back here. But they need to take the trams or the trains from the house. Assuming the trams and trains stay on schedule, it will take them one, one and a half hours to get to the Lausen station," Friedrich said. "And they will have to walk several kilometers from the last stop." He took another bite of the sandwich and looked at his father.

Heinz nodded. "I will send a car to Lausen and bicycle riders to the various roads around the estate. In the meantime, _bitte_ , eat."

Friedrich took a swig of the beer before saying, "I can ride my motorcycle to the house, _Vater_. I know the quickest way there and back. Perhaps I can find them. They can use the motorbike to return, and I can take the tram or bus back to Lausen. Later, you can send someone to pick me up at the station."

Fear flitted over Brigitte's face as she looked at her father, her hand clasping her brother's arm more tightly, not wanting him to go.

Heinz thought a moment and nodded slowly. "You have money, your papers?"

" _Ja_. And the pass signed by Herr Freyberg."

Heinz walked over to a corner cabinet and pressed a couple of the carved panels. A tall seemingly solid section opened. From the weapons displayed inside, he took a small Walther PPK and a thin, sharp stiletto.

Heinz went over to his slighter son and handed him the gun, as Brigitte reluctantly released Friedrich's arm. "If no choice."

Friedrich nodded and checked the gun with far more skill and ease than Hogan's men expected from the younger man, and put it into the holster attached to the back of his belt. Startling the Allied men even more, the knife was slipped into a holder hidden under Friedrich's left sleeve. When he was finished, Friedrich put on his black jacket.

"You do nothing to attract attention," Heinz said, touching his son's shoulders. "You do not engage the SS or anyone else in authority, no matter what you see or hear. I know it would be hard, Friedrich, but I do not wish to lose another son. Not this close to the end," he said softly, and kissed Friedrich's forehead.

Brushing away a tear, Brigitte wrapped her arms around her slightly taller brother tightly. " _Ich liebe dich_ ," she whispered into his shoulder.

Friedrich smiled at her and hugged her close. "I will be fine, _Mäuschen_.(2)" A look at his father's stern expression. "I will be fine," he repeated. "And I will obey your orders, _Vater_."

Heinz nodded gravely.

" _Komm_ , _Mäuschen."_ Friedrich took Brigitte's arm, walking her out of the kitchen. "You can tell _Mutti_ what is going on."

The siblings left behind a quiet group of Allied soldiers.

Kinch asked the question they all thought. "You lost a son?"

Heinz was still looking after his children. "At El Alamein. He was a medic in the _Afrika_ _Korps_." A bitter smile. "We received a personal letter from _Generalfeldmarschall_ Rommel praising his efforts in working with the wounded while under fire from the bombardments."

"Yeah, I bet," Newkirk murmured under his breath.

Heinz heard and looked at him. "You still hate us, Herr Peter," Heinz said evenly. "Despite everything you see."

Newkirk stayed silent.

"Does it make a difference that the wounded he cared for were British, _mein Herr_? And the bombs that killed him were British?"

Silence.

"I thought not. Perhaps I should hate you."

"We didn't start this war!" Newkirk nearly shouted.

" _Nein_ , you did not. But England, others did precious little to prevent it," Heinz retorted in a voice tinged with anger. "Canaris warned your government about Hitler long before the bombs fell. So did others. Your politicians, like Chamberlain, hid their eyes and refused to do anything while we and others like us were already dying or imprisoned." His eyes held Newkirk's. "But that is the past, Herr Peter. A past none of us can change. The only question is what happens after the war. Will you continue to hate because you lost someone you loved? Or will you work to make certain children do not pay for the mistakes of their parents?"

Newkirk stayed silent.

"I still have other duties," Heinz said. "There are empty bedrooms two levels up. When you finish eating, use the stairs just outside the kitchen."

"Uh, look, Herr Meyer," Kinch said. "I really don't think any of us are going to get any sleep now. Can you take us back to the plane we came in? After all, that's where we're supposed to be going."

Heinz nodded slowly. " _Ja_ , I was going there to make certain the Junker has been refueled. There are cots there you can rest on."

A sudden, loud engine swung the Allied soldiers around.

Heinz smiled faintly. "That is Friedrich. He is letting us know he is on his way. He will muffle the noise before he reaches the estate's main gate." Heinz took a pad and pencil from a drawer under the worktable. "I will leave a note for Frau Anna, telling her where you will be." He scribbled a quick note and sealed it in an envelope. He laid it on the middle of the table. "We can take the food as well. You have not finished eating and they may be hungry when they return to the airplane. I will get a basket for the food." He disappeared into the adjoining pantry.

As soon as Heinz was out of sight, Kinch rounded on Newkirk, speaking in English. "I don't know what your problem is, Peter. But whatever it is, get over it! You're acting like a bloody jerk! These people . . . They've lost family, friends, for years, and they're still fighting! And soon, they're going to lose their homes. They deserve your respect, not whatever it is that's going on in your head! And you," he turned to Carter, "yeah, it's tough that a little kid got killed. But that man sent _his_ _son, his crippled son,_ out on that mission with you. It could just as easily have been Friedrich who died yesterday. And he just did it again to help the Colonel!

"And Frau Anna — she lost her husband and her son! And God knows how many of the people we saw today lost family or friends. They didn't let it paralyze them! Right now, we can't deal with personal feelings. Got it?"

Carter and Newkirk nodded just as Heinz returned to the kitchen, holding a large basket.

"Here, I'll get it," Newkirk said, taking the basket from a surprised Heinz. He started stacking the food in it.

" _Danke_."

"Too bad we can't take the beer," LeBeau said, trying to ease the tension in the kitchen.

"The cabinet below the keg," Heinz said. "There is a small keg to pour the _bier_ into. It will not be as good, but it will not be wasted."

"Hell," Newkirk said with forced lightness, as Kinch and Baker took care of the beer. "I'll drink any _bier_. We don't have any at the camp. Or in Hammelburg right now."

A very faint smile. "A German town without _bier_? Unthinkable." Heinz watched as Hogan's men finished packing the basket. "We can take Frau Anna's car to the barn."

"Won't she need it?" Baker said.

"I will have one of the men return it before he sleeps. Ready, _meine Herren_?" Heinz turned off the lights, save for a small lamp in the corner.

Hogan's men nodded and followed Heinz out through the pantry to the kitchen garden.

...

* * *

Endnotes

1 _Setz dich bitte einen moment hierher_. - "Sit down here for a moment, please."

2 A common affectionate nickname meaning "little mouse".


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

March 30, 1945

Good Friday

"Tanks of the U.S. 6th Armored Division broke through German defenses north of Frankfurt, heading toward Kassel. Mannheim has been abandoned by the Germans, though fighting continues between XV Corps of the U.S 7th Army and the German 1st Army. Other units of the 7th Army are advancing on Heidelberg. Fighting is still continuing around Paderborn, thwarting attempts by the U.S. 1st Army to cut off the Ruhr from the rest of Germany. It is rumored that the French 1st Army will soon open an offensive in the area of Speyer. In many of their advances, the Allies are using the German autobahns — wide, straight roads that go to many of the major cities — to move their troops.

"Secretary of War Stimson reports that over a million German soldiers have been taken by the Allies since D-Day. He also reported that almost 180,000 Americans have been killed in combat since Pearl Harbor.

"There are reports that in many areas German civilians are turning on the Nazis, spurring Nazi retaliation and public executions. German civilians by the tens of thousands are fleeing to the interior of Germany away from the fighting on both fronts. Rumors are circulating in Germany that many top Nazis, including Hitler, are gathering in the southern Alps for a final battle.

"General Eisenhower will be the overall commander of the Occupation after the war. Major General Lucius Clay was named to General Eisenhower's staff as the officer in charge of civil affairs in the American Zone."

...

Robert Hogan, huddling into the far too light jacket, his hands jammed into the pockets, walked quickly down the dark bombed-out street, listening to the sounds around him. But it was quiet in this area. There were no residences, no offices, nothing but the shells of buildings. And no people, so he had felt safe in abandoning the car and the SS uniform in the shadows of one tilting ruin. It was intermittently cloudy as he walked — at least the light rain had stopped — so the full moon didn't reveal as much as it could have. But he still felt conspicuous in the empty streets.

Hogan stayed as close to the bombed buildings as he dared. He didn't want to be noticed; at the same time, he didn't want one of those skeletal structures collapsing on him. So he walked in the shadows for several blocks before the wrecked buildings began disappearing.

After a few minutes, Hogan came to a wide street. Here, most of the buildings were untouched by the bombings. Here, there were the sounds that one would expect in a big sprawling city. Sounds of a few vehicles — trams, buses and military vehicles, and a very few private cars. On a nearby street, he could see and hear a municipal train. Muffled sounds of radios playing music came from some of the shuttered windows of the apartments over the closed shops and businesses on the street. Despite the late hour, there were people on the streets, some of them going to nighttime jobs, others going home from jobs, others enjoying a rare night out. Save for the blackout regulations and the lack of civilian traffic, it reminded Hogan of big cities he'd seen in the States so many years ago.

At one major street, Hogan boarded a tram that seemed to be going in a westerly direction. Around him were a few soldiers, factory workers — many of them old men and young women — and a few farm laborers. Hogan found a seat near the back in a row next to the rear exit. He pulled the cap over his eyes and slumped down in the seat, pretending to be dozing, yet listening to the conversations around him as the tram started and stopped on its route.

" _Mutti_ worries about me," a teenage girl was saying to her equally young friend as she walked past Hogan to the back of the tram. "She thinks . . . "

"That sergeant, never been in combat, and he," muttered a young soldier to his companion as he exited at one of the stops.

An elderly man was painstakingly counting out the fare at the front of the tram and causing a minor stir by arguing with the driver.

A young couple, the boy in an ill-fitting uniform, the girl clinging to his arm and giggling, walked from the rear to the exit.

It dawned on Hogan that he'd never spent any real time among ordinary Germans. Yeah, he'd been to places in Hammelburg, sometimes pretending to be a German soldier, other times pretending to be a civilian, meeting underground people, but mostly, he realized in the company of Klink and his men for work details in town. Oddly, the most amount of time he'd spent among the ordinary residents of Hammelburg was the time he'd spent fighting the fire that destroyed most of the town.1

A sudden silence descended on the tram at the next stop — an SS sergeant was getting on. Hogan found himself tensing as the man walked down the aisle. The sergeant was looking around, examining every row he passed. Hogan forced himself to stay still, forced himself to relax and continue pretending to sleep.

The sergeant stopped beside Hogan and tapped him on the shoulder.

Hogan moved his cap slightly and peered up at the young face.

The SS sergeant muttered, " _Entschuldigen Sie_ ," and pointed to the empty seat next to the window.

Hogan moved slowly and sat straighter in the seat. The sergeant stepped over his legs and sat down in the seat next to Hogan. All ordinary, all casual, just a normal tram ride.

But Hogan got off at the next stop anyway.

Hogan took a deep breath of the cold air as the tram moved on. Then he looked around, getting his bearings. _Thank God for that full moon! Even if it keeps slipping in and out of the clouds. A bomber's moon._ The thought brought him to an abrupt stop. _God, I hope not! Though,_ he looked around, _there's nothing here to bomb. Now, where am I?_

He'd started out north of the main rail station, boarding a tram that was heading west and . . . Hogan stopped short as he saw the massive building surrounded by debris in front of him. It couldn't be! But it had to be — what other building in Leipzig was so substantial, so tall? It had to be the _Neues Rathaus_ and he was walking toward it. _Oh, hell_. He should be heading away from it, not toward it! He'd been so intent on keeping an eye out for unfriendlies that he hadn't noticed that the tram and the tracks had slowly turned somewhat southeast. And Cleopatra's estate was way southwest of the city. _Brilliant, Robert. Really brilliant._ Well, he couldn't go back the way he came — take too long. He had to keep going until he hit tram tracks heading the way he needed to go. Hogan started walking again. He heard bells tolling the hours from a nearby church, and he counted the bells automatically — actually, there was only one bell; it was 0100.

After a few minutes, the tracks diverged. One set headed due east, definitely the wrong way. But Hogan wasn't too crazy about the other set of tracks either. They headed somewhat northwest. He didn't have a choice, did he? The area south of the _Neues Rathaus_ was pretty well deserted. Even if he'd been so inclined, there was literally no one around he could ask for directions. And, damn, it was cold! His head was splitting, his feet were like dead weights and his muscles, those beaten muscles, courtesy of Felsenthal, were aching with every step. _Damn Felsen_. . .

Hogan stopped abruptly. He'd forgotten — Felsenthal was dead. And he was alive. Suddenly, his head, his feet and his muscles seemed lighter. And his step was firmer as he continued his walk.

A few minutes later, he reached an open space — _Westplatz_. And a sigh of relief. Here he found tram tracks heading toward the southwest. Despite the late hour, 0130, there were several shivering people waiting at the tram stop. One of them was looking at the tram sign with a shielded light, and Hogan, to his immense relief, recognized the number displayed there — it was the same number as the tram Klink, Wolfgang and he had taken from the Lausen station.

And here it was coming toward him. This time, Hogan sat near the front of the tram as it continued on its way. Maybe his luck had finally changed. And as he relaxed in the comparative warmth of the tram, he wondered how Klink was doing.

...

He'd taken a chance. And so far, it had paid off. But Wilhelm Klink was afraid of pushing his luck. So he got off the tram a few stops before the one he really wanted. In the distance, he could hear the train. He was hoping he wouldn't have to take the train; the SS and the police patrolled the trains often, looking for deserters and others. But it all depended on whether the _Karl-Heine_ Canal had been extended and if the old sewer line was still open. He was hoping, no, praying, that they were.

Praying. Appropriate word. Klink was heading for his old parish church, _Liebfrauenkirche_ in Lindenau. _Liebfrauen_ was one of the few Catholic churches in the predominantly Lutheran city. It was a large church built in 1908 with an attached school that once held a thousand students, a school that had to close in 1937 thanks to the Nazis' ban on religious schools and youth groups. But the church was still there, having survived the depression, the shortage of funds, and the Nazis. According to his mother, Theodor Gunkel was still the pastor. Back when Klink had started his activities all those years ago, _Pater_ Theodor had allowed him, and others, to hide people from the searching Nazis in the rambling church buildings. But that was a long time ago, before the Nazis' reach became so oppressive and so far-reaching.

And there it was, a tall Romanesque style structure on _Karl-Heine Strasse_ , taking up the entire block between _Engertstrasse_ and the train tracks.

Klink stood under an old spreading tree across the street from it. Save for the few trains that rumbled by, the night was quiet in this area. The factories were located further away, and the dark residences were mute as the occupants were either sleeping or working. A quick glance around. The bombings had missed the church and the adjacent area; it remained much as he'd remembered it. Except . . . Now he noticed that the stained glass windows, those gorgeously colored windows, were gone. Not destroyed he hoped, but removed to spare them. A pity; he would have liked to see them one last time.

Enough. He was running out of time. He needed to talk to _Pater_ Theodor. The question was, where was he? In the church, despite the hour? Or sleeping in the attached rectory — which would present some problems.

A quick glance around. The streets were empty as the moon vanished again behind the clouds. Klink moved quickly across the street and disappeared into the darkness of the main entrance. He tried the door. Locked. A disappointment; the church had once been open all the time, and it was a lock he couldn't get through.

To the left of the entrance, there was a wall gate, one he could climb without too much trouble. Though what it would do to his back . . .

The drop on the other side jarred him more than he cared to admit. _I am far too old to be climbing walls . . ._

Wincing, Klink hugged the wall and made for the church's side door in the large garden. It was open, though this door he could have opened if it weren't. He opened the door and slipped inside.

It was dark inside, save for a few flickering candles that provided some scant light. He ran with silent steps up the broad staircase that led into the main church. It was much as he remembered it — the main aisle and the two side aisles with their arches, the massive organ loft. He turned toward the ornate altar and stopped, startled. It was bare; the crucifix was covered in velvet. . . .

Of course. Tomorrow was, no, today was Good Friday. Klink walked down the central aisle, remembering — the altar was stripped on Holy Thursday in preparation for Good Friday. Then he noticed the priest kneeling, praying, in front of the stripped altar.

Klink walked slowly, soundlessly toward the man. He stopped in the shadows by the first row of seats. There was only one tall lit candle beside the altar. The man, _Pater_ Theodor? He couldn't tell. Without a sound, he climbed over the altar rail and approached the kneeling man. And just as silently, he struck.

"I mean you no harm," Klink said softly, his arm around the kneeling man's neck, his hand clasped over the man's mouth. "I will take my hand from your mouth. _Bitte_ , do not shout. _Verstanden_?"

The man nodded. And as Klink's hand was removed, he whispered, "There is no money here. And . . . " He stopped as Klink laughed softly.

"I am not a thief, _Pater_ Theodor."

The priest stiffened and stood; Klink let him.

"Wilhelm?" Gunkel turned around. "Wilhelm!" He grasped Klink's arms tightly. " _Mein Gott_ , you are alive. I have prayed . . . "

"I thank you for your prayers; I have needed them." His eyes met the priest's. "And I need your help."

"Anything."

Klink's eyes swept the church. "Is it safe?"

Gunkel started to nod, and changed his mind. "Come with me." He walked to the right of the altar and entered the adjoining sacristy. He flicked the light switch; a faint bulb turned on. "This is more secure. Sit, _bitte_. Do you need anything? Water, food?"

" _Nein, danke_. I need information. I need to get out of Leipzig inconspicuously and as quickly as possible. Do any of the old routes still exist? The Canal? The sewers?"

"To the south and west?" Gunkel asked.

Klink nodded.

"Despite government promises to lengthen it, the _Karl-Heine Canal_ still extends for only a kilometer or two to the south. There is nothing beyond that, so it will not take you far."

"The sewer, storm drains?"

"No one has used that route for some time. I do know the city has done nothing to improve the drains since you used them years ago. But I do not know if the old route exists in the same condition anymore. And if it does, I do not know if the old exits still remain. You could go the length of the lines and possibly not find an accessible exit to the south."

Klink nodded and stood. He looked out at the dim church. He was running out of options. And time. No, not true. Options, even if he didn't like them, remained. But time didn't. Not if he wanted to make that plane at 0400. An inward smile. He was thinking like a passenger on a commercial flight, wondering if he could get to the airport on time. A situation that rarely existed in Europe anymore.

"Wilhelm," Gunkel said softly, "surely as a colonel . . . "

His head was shaking. "I am here without authorization, and the SS is looking for me."

"The SS . . . That attack yesterday morning?"

Klink nodded. "They do not know my name. But some of the living know what I look like. They are closely examining everyone in a uniform now."

"I have use of a car — "

Another shake of his head. " _Nein, danke_. I will not endanger anyone else. I would like to leave Leipzig as quickly as possible. But failing that, I can hide for a while and try later."

"They are angry, Wilhelm. Very angry. I heard four dozen had died and many more were injured in that assault. The fools can see the end coming and it terrifies them. So they attack everywhere. It will be difficult for you to find safe shelter for long."

"I know. This time, I made too many mistakes, _Pater_ Theodor," Klink admitted in a low voice. "And I am endangering others because of them."

"Your family — "

"They are gone, heading west. _Gott_ willing, to safety."

" _Gott sei Dank_!" Gunkel looked at the still man at the door and walked over. He put his hand on Klink's shoulder and felt the involuntary flinch. His hand lifted as if scalded. "You need . . . "

Emotionless, Klink turned to him. "I need to leave. Now."

Swallowing hard, Gunkel nodded, accepting the decision. " _Jawohl_." He walked over to the wardrobe cabinet next to the shuttered window and opened it. He pulled a worn cassock and a biretta, the square cap worn by priests, from it. From the shelf, he took a well-used book. He turned back to Klink. "You can wear the cassock over your clothes. They cannot be traced to me or any other church."

Klink took out the wallet that Cleopatra had given him and put it on the small table in the room. He slipped the cassock over his jacket and stuck his cap into his jacket pocket. He took the biretta and put it on his head.

Gunkel handed him the book. "The breviary is in Latin. Do you remember . . . ?"

Klink smiled faintly. "I have become quite proficient since we last met."

Gunkel nodded and turned back to the cabinet; he knelt down. Gunkel shifted a number of hymnals and missals from the bottom of the cabinet and using his fingers, pried up a board. He took a small metal box from the space and stood. He put the box on the table and opened it. "These are actual documents, signed by the bishop in Dresden years ago." He handed several papers to Klink. "They will pass any inspection. But I would appreciate it if you destroy them when you no longer have a need for them."

Klink nodded. " _Danke schön_." He picked up the wallet and put the documents into it. He kept enough money to use for a few days and handed the rest of it to the surprised priest. "I have been told that the parish is helping a number of people who have lost homes. This will help a little. The identity papers that I have not used could be useful to others."

Gunkel nodded. " _Danke schön_."

" _Pater_ Theodor, I have learned that after the war, Germany will be divided into four occupation zones." He looked soberly at the startled priest. "Leipzig will be in the Soviet zone."

" _Mein Gott! Nein_!" Gunkel whispered in a horrified voice. "The stories, the atrocities — "

"I wish I could deny the stories from the East, but I cannot. There have been unspeakable cruelties inflicted by the Soviets. But the Americans will reach Leipzig first. The Soviets will take over a few months later," Klink said evenly. "Hopefully, their bloodlust will have abated by then. But I have ordered my people to leave before that happens. If you know anyone else who would be endangered, _bitte_ , notify them."

Gunkel nodded. "There are a few . . . " He fell silent, his mind in a turmoil. The Soviets! " _Gott im Himmel_!" he whispered, he prayed, turning away from Klink. He had hoped life would be simpler, more pleasant, for his people after the war. He knew there would be hard times for a long time due to the massive destruction and the hard task of rebuilding a society that had degenerated into evil. But the Soviets . . . ! " _Gott im Himmel_." And he shuddered as he made the Sign of the Cross.

"I must leave," Klink said quietly.

Gunkel shook himself and turned back to his former parishioner. " _Ja_ , you must." He walked over to the door and turned off the light. He and Klink walked into the sanctuary.

"What happened to the windows?" Klink asked as they walked to the rear of the church.

"Removed for safekeeping."

Klink nodded. "I hope you will be able to put them back after the war; they were beautiful."

" _Ja_ , they were." Gunkel stopped and looked at Klink, whose face was in shadow. "I will never see you again, or your family."

"Never is a long time, _Pater_ Theodor. But for now . . . " Klink shook his head. "For now, I do not know if I will see my family again. Or even," a cynical smile, "if I will live to see the dawn."

Gunkel put a hand on his arm. "Wilhelm, if there were time, I would . . . I would like to give you general absolution."

Klink was silent for a long moment. " _Pater_ , in my fight, I have committed sins I never imagined committing in my darkest dreams," he whispered.

"Leave them with God. _Bitte_."

Klink took off the biretta and knelt.

...

In the barn beside the plane, Hogan's men silently ate the food that had been placed on the trestle table. The doors were closed to prevent light from being seen. But, they were surprised to learn, there were a couple of lookouts on top of the three-story barn, lookouts with night vision goggles2 and two-way radios, as there were on other high spots scattered around the estate.

"Boy," Carter said, "this really is like a military base."

"Of necessity, Herr Andrew," Anna Neumann said, walking into the barn. She wore a mink coat, collar high to keep out the night air. She pulled off her leather gloves as she walked toward the table. Despite the early hour, she was as serene as ever and seemingly well-rested.

Bruno followed her, carrying a large coffeemaker. A bag of what seemed to be coffee hung around his neck. He put them on a side table and went back out to the car for more supplies.

The door to the barn opened again, and an attractive woman in her mid-forties, her blonde hair in a severe bun, a heavy dark brown fur shawl wrapped around her body, came inside.

"Else." Anna went over to the woman. "My dear, your hands are freezing. Did you bicycle over here?"

A faint smile. "It was not far, Frau Anna."

"Maybe not. But Rolf will take you back to the house in the car. _Bitte_ , have some hot coffee."

" _Danke, meine Dame_. But — "

"But you wish to see Heinz. He is in the lookout box; he will be down in a moment. I am sorry, Else. I have been keeping Heinz from you for the past few days," Anna said, regret in her voice. "And from your children."

"I understand, Frau Anna."

"I know, my friend, but it is still selfish of me. It will end soon."

An upstairs door closed, and Heinz Meyer came down the ladder a moment later. He pulled off his gloves. "It is getting colder, Frau Anna, and more overcast."

"And still no sign?"

" _Nein, meine Dame_. And nothing from the outer perimeter lookouts."

Anna nodded. "We will wait a little longer."

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_."

"In the meantime, Heinz." Anna gestured toward the woman who was waiting patiently by the barn door. Anna walked to the rear of the barn where Bruno was setting up the coffeemaker.

"Else," Heinz breathed. "What are you doing here?" He walked over to her and took her cold hands.

Else touched his unshaven cheek lightly. "Kurt would like to say _Gute_ _Nacht_ to his father."

Heinz rubbed her hands in his to warm them. "It will be _Guten Morgen_ soon. Is our little one still awake?"

A faint smile. "He fell asleep on the couch as I was reading to him. Brigitte is with him."

"She should be sleeping as well," Heinz said.

"You know she will not until Friedrich returns," she whispered. "Nor will I."

"My Else," Heinz said, twirling a loose curl around his callused finger. "You little knew what kind of a life you would lead when you married me twenty-five years ago."

A soft laugh. "I was marrying the man who would become the steward of the Neumann estate. My friends warned me you would have no time for me — that the estate would always come first. But they were so jealous when you asked me to marry you. Me, a farm girl from the outskirts of the estate."

"I asked the prettiest girl on the estate," he whispered. "And I was so terrified she'd say no."

A teasing, "How could I say no to the son of the steward?"

"Oh, Else. I have put you through hell for so long."

Else shook her head. "Not you. Only others. You have given me only heaven."

His arms went around her still slim body. "Have I, my Else?" he whispered.

A smile. "It is Good Friday, Heinz. I would not lie on — "

His kiss stopped the words.

At the other end of the barn, Anna Neumann wiped away a tear with a shaking hand and turned away from the couple who had become her closest friends, save for one. "I should have sent them and the children away," she whispered to Bruno, "after Johann's death. And sent Georg with them. "

Bruno, devotion and sympathy in his eyes, signed.

"I know," Anna whispered. "I know I needed them. But it was selfish and it cost us our sons' lives!"

An emphatically signed, " _NEIN_!"

A startled look at her champion. And a deep breath. "Am I trying to play God, my Bruno? Wishing for the power to end death? I suppose I am. We have all lost so many, so many — your wife, Johann, Georg, others, what happened to Friedrich . . . And I am so afraid of losing more . . . " She walked away from him and stood in the gloom under the loft to hide her tears.

...

Friedrich Meyer was playing a hunch. He had made good time on the mainly deserted streets of Leipzig to the site of the Klink house in Lindenau. Once there, he unobtrusively joined the onlookers as the fire department continued to fight the fire at the collapsed house.

"Another gas leak," he heard one neighbor say.

"Carelessness," said another.

"Never," said an elderly woman. "Margarete Klink would never condone carelessness. She was a _sehr gut_ _Hausfrau_."

" _Ja, aber_ , with the irregular work shifts, perhaps, they grew tired and accidentally left the gas on," said an older man.

"Most likely an underground leak," said a tired-looking younger woman. "How many have we had since the last bombing?"

" _Gott's_ will," said the elderly woman.

"Do you think they're all dead?" asked a middle-aged man.

"Who knows? Franz sometimes worked at night," said a younger man.

"Well, unless Franz comes back in the morning, we'll never know," said the elderly man. "Too much damage to look for any bodies."

"Or anything else," said someone else. "Pity. They had some nice things. All destroyed now."

"Maybe we can scavenge something," said an opportunist.

"Thief!"

"I'm a survivor. And so are you. If they're dead, they can't use it."

"I will light a candle for them at church," said the elderly woman, crossing herself.

 _Church_. Friedrich melted away into the darkness. It was possible . . . _The Church_.

Friedrich got back on his motorbike and headed for _Liebfrauenkirche_.

Fifteen minutes later, Friedrich had parked his motorbike under an overhang beside the church, and was checking the main door. Locked. He could try entering the backyard from the raised railroad tracks next to the church, but that would mean climbing the hillside on the other side of the railway bridge. Or he could scale the gate to the left of the church door. But with his lame leg, both would take more time than he was willing to invest. He pulled a slender tube from an inside pocket of his jacket. Magnesium thermite, just what he needed — it would burn through the lock.

In seconds, Friedrich was in the vestibule of the dark church. He went slowly up the stairs to the nave of the church, praying he would find the priest there. If not, he'd have to leave. He couldn't risk searching the rectory, not since the Nazis had turned the adjoining school into a Hitler Youth center.

And there he was, praying in front of the shrouded altar. Well, at least it was a priest.

Friedrich cautiously approached the kneeling priest. It should be _Pater_ Theodor. _Please be Pater Theodor_ ; he didn't relish the idea of dealing with another priest.

Friedrich stayed in the shadows, but close enough to be heard. " _Pater_ Theodor."

The priest started and stood, looking into the darkened church. "Who is that?"

" _Pater_ Theodor Gunkel?"

" _Ja_ , I am _Pater_ Theodor. Who are you?"

An inward sigh of relief. "I . . ." And Friedrich stopped, now frustrated. While the church had been used as a way station for helping Jews and others hide from the Nazis in the past, that was years ago when he had been a boy. And while he knew the priest's name, the priest didn't know his!

" _Es tut mir leid, Pater_ ," Friedrich said, damning himself for not thinking this through. Still in the shadows, he took a couple of halting steps forward. "I wish you no harm. I am looking for a friend. I thought he might be here, but I can see he is not. _Bitte entschuldigen Sie_."

"You are injured!" Gunkel took a step toward him.

" _Bitte_ , no closer. I am not injured; it was years ago when I was a boy."

"Years ago!" And Gunkel strove to remember. An explosion years ago, one boy was killed, another seriously injured. And an underground unit had been shut down as they were forced to regroup. "Wilhelm!" he said suddenly.

Friedrich walked closer. In the dim light, the priest could just make out a lean young man taller than he. "Is he here?" Friedrich said in a low, tense voice. "I can help him get out of Leipzig."

"He was, but he has left."

" _Bitte_ , _Pater_ Theodor," Friedrich said. "Tell me what you know."

...

In the barn, Heinz Meyer was escorting Else to Anna's car when the telephone rang. All eyes were on him as he walked over to the telephone. There was a sequence of rings before Heinz picked up the phone. " _Ja_."

Hogan's men stood and tensed as Heinz listened to whatever the message was. He didn't say a word and hung up the phone.

"Heinz?" Anna asked, her calm voice belying her inner turmoil.

"That was Friedrich; he is at the church in Lindenau. Papa Bear and Herr Wilhelm had split up, with Papa Bear taking an SS car away with orders to abandon it and head back to the estate. Herr Wilhelm has assumed a disguise as a priest. Friedrich thinks he knows where he has gone and will be tracking him. Given the time frame, it is likely that Papa Bear is now on foot — there are few buses heading this way at this hour of the day. I will send out scouts to look for him."

"He might try to avoid them," Kinch said in a quiet voice. "Send us out as well."

Anna nodded and went over to a map laid out on one of the tables.

"And Herr Wilhelm?" Baker asked as he looked at the map.

"Friedrich has a description of him and he knows where the trains and trams stop. He will ride along the most likely route," Heinz said. " _Aber_ , Frau Anna, it is possible that Herr Wilhelm may not make the deadline he set."

Anna kept her eyes on the map. "We will deal with that problem when it arises. For now, we concentrate on Papa Bear."

" _Jawohl, meine Dame_ ," said the dutiful steward and called in additional men to help search for Papa Bear.

...

Now trudging past fields, Robert Hogan was walking on autopilot, placing one foot in front of the other mechanically. He was shivering from the cold. His head felt as if it was splitting, and his muscles, those bruised, aching muscles — he was to the point where they wouldn't work anymore. And he tripped, falling heavily onto the hard ground.

Hogan lay still. He couldn't move; his body was rebelling from the fatigue and the soreness. He felt his eyes closing.

 _Not smart, Robert_ , part of his brain insisted. _Not smart. Hyperthermia. A pilot's nightmare. Also the nightmare of anyone caught out in this weather. Get up!_

But his body refused to move. Dimly, he heard a car stop, and a shout, "He's here!"

Someone touched his shoulders, someone was lifting him. A small whimper of pain.

"It's alright, Colonel."

It sounded like Kinch. But Kinch was nowhere near here. He was back at that impossibly far estate.

"Colonel!" It was Baker now, yelling in his ear. "Drink this!"

Baker?

Hogan felt something touch his lips, something that stung. A fiery liquid was flowing into his mouth, choking him. He coughed, and coughed, and coughed. Finally, he stopped. But there was a side effect to the coughing. He was more alert, he felt . . . alive. Slowly, his eyes opened. In the moonlight, he could just make out the figure of a man kneeling beside him.

The dark man spoke, "Colonel?" He helped Hogan sit up.

"Baker," Hogan managed to whisper. "Kinch. What are you doing here?"

"You're safe, Colonel. You're just a few miles from the estate."

The estate! A faint smile; he had made it.

Kinch helped Hogan stand. "And from the plane. The others are waiting there."

Plane! He'd almost forgotten about the plane.

" _Komm_!" said another voice, Heinz's voice. "We must hurry."

Hogan nodded, his strength returning. "What time is it?"

"About two-thirty," Baker said.

Two-thirty. "Is Kl . . . Is the Stage here?"

Kinch shook his head, his hand unobtrusively under Hogan's elbow. "No. A couple of men went to the house and were ordered away by someone inside using Cleopatra's code. They hung around for a few minutes and saw the house collapse."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah, Wolfgang said they were going to destroy it."

"But they are gone?" Heinz said.

"Yeah, they're gone."

After a trip of a few minutes in the car, Hogan was more than relieved to see the outline of the barn and beside it, the camouflaged plane. The four men went into the barn.

A comfortably warm barn, Hogan was glad to see. And he was glad to see his men waiting for him.

"Colonel!" LeBeau sprang to his feet and hurried over.

"I'm okay, LeBeau," Hogan said. "Is there anything hot to drink?"

Newkirk brought over a cup of coffee. "Here you are, sir."

"Thanks." Hogan took a sip, feeling the hot liquid coursing through his body. "Boy, I needed this," he said with a grin at his men. His eyes swept them; they all looked fine and rested. Well, most of them; Carter still looked peaked.

Then he saw her, standing serenely by a table. Hogan nearly threw the coffee cup down and walked over to her. "You knew, didn't you?"

Anna's brow lifted at his tone. "I beg your — "

"Don't deny it! You knew what the SS did to his back!"

She kept her composure, but Anna still lost the color in her cheeks. "What happened?" she asked in a low voice.

"Some SS goon who knew the family had heard what went on at the annex. He had gotten a description of the Stage and realized who he was. And he knew about the whipping too! He got a real kick out of yanking the sweater off the Stage's back before I could stop him!"

"Did you kill him?" Anna asked evenly.

Despite his anger, Hogan was taken aback. "Uh, yeah."

" _Danke_. You saved me from an unpleasant task." And she turned away.

"Now, wait a minute, Lady! Why didn't you get him a doctor?"

Anna turned back to him with a sad smile. "I was ordered not to, Colonel Hogan. In fairness to him, I do not think he anticipated such a dramatic denouement to his ordeal." She looked at the shocked faces of the men in the barn. "You will be leaving shortly, Colonel Hogan. I suggest you eat," she nodded at the sandwiches wrapped in napkins on the table, "and rest while you can. It will be a long flight back to your camp."

That brought Hogan up short. "The camp . . . Have you got a radio here?"

...

"Schultz! Schultz! Wake up, old bean!" RAF Lieutenant Walter Townsend yelled as he stepped into the room shared by sergeants Hans Schultz and Karl Langenscheidt. He flipped the light switch and walked over to the bed.

" _Was_?" Schultz said groggily. " _Was ist los_?" he mumbled in his sleep.

"Schultz! Get up!" Townsend bent over the bed and shook Schultz awake. "Come on, old bean!"

"Bean? Who is a bean?" Schultz demanded, rubbing his puffy eyes. "What . . . what is going on?"

Townsend lowered his voice a little as he saw Langenscheidt staring at him. "We just heard from Colonel Hogan."

Schultz sat up abruptly; Townsend hurriedly stepped back. "Colonel Hogan. The Kommandant . . . "

Townsend shook his head. "Sorry, Schultz, just Colonel Hogan. He needs us, you, to do something."

Schultz got out of the bed. "What does Colonel Hogan want?" Schultz asked as he began getting dressed.

"You know where the Kommandant and the Colonel went in the jeeps?"

Schultz looked at him. " _Ja_."

"Well, Hogan wants you to take us there in the staff car to pick up the jeeps and motorcycle."

"But how will they get back?"

"Hogan said to meet him at the airfield at dawn with a jeep and the staff car and some men. I guess they're stealing a plane."

Schultz sniffed disdainfully — if only Townsend knew. Then again, he soon will.

An inward sigh as he sat down to pull on his boots. The web of secrecy he and the Kommandant had spun so painstakingly for so many years was slowly fraying. Even the men in his command now saw, now heard, things they should not . For good or ill? Schultz didn't know. But there was a reckoning coming — for all Germans, not merely for his men. Soon they would need to decide who they would follow — the sycophants who still followed the increasingly murderous Nazi stalwarts or those who dared to hope for a new life, a hard life for a long time it had to be acknowledged, after the Nazis were gone. A reckoning everyone in the camp would soon face.

Schultz stood up, stamping his feet to even out the boots.

"Ready?" Townsend asked.

Ready? Townsend didn't realize what a loaded question that was. At least not yet.

"Ready," Schultz said in a firm voice, following Townsend out of the room.

...

Friedrich Meyer knew he had the right tram; he had caught a glimpse of a man in a cassock inside. The tram wasn't empty, despite the very late hour, but it wasn't full either, so it was easy to see who was getting on and off.

Except, despite his earlier good fortune, Friedrich was getting frustrated. He'd expected Herr Wilhelm to get off at the Adler stop to make the connection to the Lausen tram, at which point Friedrich would give him the motorbike to get back to the estate. But Herr Wilhelm didn't get off; he had remained on the southbound tram. Which made no sense. That tram dead-ended at Knautkleeberg, a once popular recreation area for the wealthy of Leipzig. There, the tram would turn around and head back on the same track to Leipzig. For Herr Wilhelm to get to Adler, he would have to go to the end of the line and backtrack on the same tram!

Why hadn't Herr Wilhelm gotten off? Did he have a contact somewhere along this route who could help him return to the estate? Someone Friedrich didn't know? Someone outside of Cleopatra's network? Possible, but highly unlikely.

Friedrich stayed behind the tram with his lights off. The last thing he needed was to get stopped by any official, police or other, for breaking the blackout regulations. He didn't dare get too close to the tram for the same reason. But what if he passed the tram and waited just beyond it? Maybe he could see what the problem was. The next tram stop was just past some trees. He could wait there with reasonable cover.

Friedrich glanced at the tram as he went by. It was dim, but the full moon shed some light on the interior of the open tram. There were only a handful of people on it now; it was easy to spot the cassock-clad man. And easy to see the SS uniform sitting next to him.

 _Verdammt_! Now what? There weren't many stops left before Knautkleeberg. But there was a stretch coming up with fields on the eastern side and a large lake on the western side of the tracks. Would Herr Wilhelm get off the stop before or after the lake? Both stops were secluded with few buildings. Or would he go to the end of the line? Which was also secluded. Of course, the real question was what would the SS officer do, and what the hell was _he_ doing on the tram?

Then he remembered — at Knautkleeberg, there was a train station next to the tram stop, the 19th century Knauthain station. That train went north to Leipzig or south to Gera. But, at this hour, there would be quite a wait for either train, at least a couple of hours, past Herr Wilhelm's deadline of 0400. Had Herr Wilhelm given up on getting back to the estate, possibly as a way to get away from the SS officer? Friedrich sympathized with the need to get away from the SS, but not on the idea of going somewhere other than the estate. Of course, Herr Wilhelm had no idea that Friedrich had found him, could help him, and had a way of getting him back to the estate by 0400. Which meant he had to let Herr Wilhelm know he was there; he had to get on that tram.

The tram had reached the stop before the lake; no one got off. Friedrich increased his speed; he needed to beat the tram to the next stop, and get on that tram. At the Seumestrasser stop, he hid the bike in the brush behind the tram shelter just as the tram slowed. And there, Friedrich boarded the tram.

...

Wilhelm Klink had been talking with the SS captain since he boarded the tram at Felsenkeller. To his surprise, the SS officer had approached him at the stop, and after a cursory look at his papers, the captain, who never did give his name, sat down and began asking him questions about his life as a priest, his training, his beliefs. And so, to Klink's utter surprise, he was having a theological discussion with the man. Fortunately, his mother had ensured that her children had a thorough knowledge of their faith, so Klink remembered enough to be able to answer the questions. The biggest problem was that the officer seemed to enjoy the conversation, and seemed to have no intention of ending it any time soon.

Klink had decided his best move would be to take the tram to the last stop — Knautkleeberg — and then walk over to the adjacent train station and buy a ticket to Gera. He could then circle back to the tram once he lost the inquisitive SS officer. Assuming the man didn't decide to go to Gera with him. If he did, the game would be over and someone would end up dead.

Klink almost missed the SS officer's next question as he saw a familiar face board the tram at Seumestrasser — Friedrich Meyer.

Since his arrival in Leipzig, Klink had seen Friedrich only once — in the stone room with the others, standing next to his father as the Stage unmasked. But he hadn't seen Friedrich, really seen him, in years. Not since . . . and he found himself remembering the past as he mechanically answered the SS man's questions.

He first saw Friedrich in Heinz's home as the baby born two days after the birth of Georg, the heir to the estate. Born nearly a month early, Friedrich had been a small boy with his mother's lean build. Yet as he grew, it was clear Friedrich had also inherited his father's strong constitution and strength. And his father's love of the estate, proving that he, not his older brother Heinrich, would be the future steward of the estate. Friedrich and Georg grew up as happy, adventurous boys, sharing their lessons, their play, their activities. Friedrich was the more responsible of the pair, as befitted an estate steward. And he had more heart and courage than Georg, the spoiled and sometimes reckless heir to the estate — it was the smaller 10-year-old Friedrich who defended some Roma children outside the estate from their attackers while Georg ran to get help. In time and with training by their fathers, the two would be worthy successors to the estate, their strengths and weaknesses balancing the other's.

But fate was often cruel, and Klink was forced to admit that his chosen path in fighting the Nazis took an unimaginable toll on the two young boys. Georg's father had died in a failed mission when the boys were eleven. His mother became the indomitable Cleopatra, and the two boys from that time on roamed the hidden tunnels, learning skills — fighting, shooting, bomb making — they should never have known about. And it culminated in 1940 when the 16-year-old Georg endlessly begged to go on an upcoming mission at a weapons factory. To forestall the boys stowing away, the Stage had finally agreed to let them go. But for unknown reasons, one of the bombs went off early, catching both boys in the explosion. Georg died a few hours later in his mother's arms, while Friedrich . . .

The masked Stage had been in the stone room, a crying pregnant Else beside him, watching an horrific surgery as the concealed Jewish doctor dug pieces of the bomb out of the screaming boy's savaged leg while his father and Bruno held the tortured boy still. And days later, Wilhelm Klink was at the estate for Georg's funeral when the bedridden boy vowed vengeance against the Nazis for the death of his friend. A vow everyone discounted until Friedrich, against all odds, learned to walk again, grew strong again, and without his parents' knowledge and with Anna's help, learned to fight despite his maimed leg. Months later, when Heinz discovered what Anna had done, it opened a rift between the steward and the woman he had loyally served for years. That in turn led to an estrangement between the father, who was terrified his son would turn into a soulless killer like Richard, and the boy who longed to avenge his friend. In the end, it took Friedrich's love for his older brother Heinrich, the love of his family, and Friedrich's ageless Chinese _Sifu_ , the same teacher who years earlier had taught a much older Wilhelm Klink skills he needed to survive, to heal the rupture and make Friedrich realize he wasn't, could never be, a pitiless killer. And at the gentle Heinrich's funeral months later, father and son openly reconciled and became the team they were meant to be, united in their determination to safeguard the estate and end the Nazis' reign of terror. As Anna directed her far-flung Resistance cells, Heinz ran the estate, including its so important security, with Friedrich as his faithful second.

As Klink saw Friedrich limp past him toward the darker back of the tram where Friedrich could see everyone, he wondered if Carter knew what Friedrich's true role in the rescue had been. He doubted it; often, Hogan and his men saw what they wanted to see — their aborted attempt to leave the estate proved that. So Carter would see the slender dark blond youth with the bad limp and questions about bombs only as his spotter, instead of the man who was ordered to keep him alive so Carter could finish his part in the rescue. Those orders meant making certain that no one from the annex would get near the American who was around the corner from it. And that was what Klink regretted most about his Resistance activities in Leipzig — that those activities had turned the bright happy child he'd known since birth into a deadly sniper for the Resistance.

And here he was proving, as if Friedrich ever needed to, just how smart and resourceful he was, and letting Klink know he now had a way back to the estate before his self-imposed deadline.

...

Friedrich stood up as the tram slowed for the Knautkleeberg stop. As he expected, the handful of travelers waited to exit the tram until the SS officer left, followed by the priest. Friedrich started for the rear exit and found himself behind an elderly woman who was having trouble with her belongings. A basket and some of her packages effectively blocked the aisle. Breathing a silent curse, he bent to pick up her waylaid parcels, and found himself being pummeled by her umbrella. He hurriedly ducked back to evade the blows.

" _Mutter_!" A younger woman with a careworn face hurried over. " _Entschuldigen Sie_ ," she said to Friedrich. "Her mind . . ." She picked up some of the fallen parcels. "Since the bombs . . . This is all she has left. She won't leave them with me."

" _Ich verstehe_ ," Friedrich said softly; he'd met others like her before. He pulled an errant package from under the seat and handed it to the younger woman who took it gratefully as she let him exit the tram first.

Outside in the cold, damp night, Friedrich zipped up his jacket, his eyes sweeping the desolate landscape. Some eighty meters away stood the dark outline of the Knauthain train station. The full moon crept from a dark cloud, shedding surreal light on the station and its environs. Save for the tram and the few people still around — though they were walking away from the tram — he couldn't see anything. The station itself was tightly shuttered, not even a speck of light showing. Nothing he hadn't seen before; the estate was also an island of darkness. But, for some reason, this darkness seemed to be threatening.

 _Ridiculous_! he told himself. Of course, it was dark.

Friedrich walked toward the station, leaving behind the safe tram, its two boarding passengers and the driver. A shiver from the cold. Or was it the threatening atmosphere?

Before he could decide which, Friedrich was at the steps leading up into the building. He opened one of the double doors and scooted inside. It was no less quiet inside the dimly lit building than outside. There was an apathetic clerk behind the high wooden counter, his thinly-haired head leaning on his open palm, a wide yawn splitting his bony face. Three waiting travelers — an elderly couple in solid black, and a middle-aged man in a train worker's overcoat — were sitting on hard wooden benches.

The clerk glanced at the limping youth, and stretched his limbs slightly in a pantomime of attention as Friedrich came toward him. When Friedrich passed the counter, the clerk slumped into his prior lethargy.

Friedrich headed toward a short hallway leading to two doors, one labeled _Herrentoilette,_ the other to what had once been a café. He tried the café door first — locked with no sign that it had been opened in months. That left the WC.

Friedrich opened the door slowly, his eyes flitting around the dimly lit interior, straining to hear inside. Empty. A soft hiss escaped him as he closed the door, puzzlement in his eyes. Where did they go? He was certain they hadn't gone past the station; there weren't other structures around the tram stop for them to go into. And they weren't on the southern end of the building, which was the way he had come. Which left the deeply shadowed northern end and the tracks west of the station.

Friedrich headed back to the waiting room, looking at the chalkboard schedule next to the counter. There wasn't a train due from Gera or Leipzig for at least an hour. With seeming nonchalance, he ambled out the door to the train platform.

Outside, Friedrich let his eyes adjust to the semi darkness of the empty platform. The moon was playing peek-a-boo with the low clouds, illuminating the tracks for brief seconds. Enough for him to see that there was no one on or along the tracks. And there was no one walking across the tracks to the fields or the cluster of buildings some two hundred meters from the station. Nor were there any shrubs or trees close enough to the west or the south that would conceal two men. Which left only one direction — the northern end of the building.

A deep breath, a tightening of his muscles, another breath, and Friedrich gradually released the tension in his limbs. His breathing grew deeper, his senses more alert as he unzipped his jacket. His eyes flitting around, Friedrich walked north along the platform toward the still skeletal trees, toward an old storage shed for a once elegant outdoor cafe. Toward a perfect place for an ambush.

A step down from the platform onto the unpaved area around the station where a now unused staircase led to the old café. A quick glance to his right and . . .

"Mein Herr!" Friedrich haltingly ran toward the cassock-clad man who lay in the shadows against the north wall of the station. He knelt awkwardly next to the prone man. "Mein Herr," he said softly, touching the man's back. His hands lifted as he felt the man's involuntary shudder. An inward curse — given what had happened to other SS victims, he should have guessed they'd used a whip.

"Can you," Friedrich began in a soft voice, and stopped as he heard a sound from the budding trees. In the dark shadow of the building, he unobtrusively slipped his hand inside his left sleeve to the knife. He stood as a man appeared.

"So, this was the reason for this ridiculous journey," the SS officer said smoothly, stepping from the side of the shed into the deeper shadow of the building.

Friedrich limped away from the building and the SS captain, staying out of his reach, his eyes flicking to the gloom behind the man.

"Is this your backup, Herr Stage?" the SS man taunted as he walked closer to Friedrich. "A cripple?"

The full moon decided to illuminate the scene — the smug SS captain holding a swagger stick, behind him the man lying against the side of the building, and in front of him, the limping youth — the youth who unexpectedly held a knife in his right hand.

The SS captain laughed. "That knife is bigger than you are." The officer moved, baton in hand, toward Friedrich — Friedrich who collapsed on his left side and rolled away, throwing the knife at the officer, and missing him.

The officer came at him, the swagger stick swinging at Friedrich, who had rolled to his feet in an unexpectedly agile move, a sturdy branch now held in his hand. "You missed, boy!"

The two sticks came together, the heavier, taller captain forcing Friedrich back. But to the officer's surprise, Friedrich pivoted and caught him in the ribs with a strong blow of his own. "The boy wants to play? Oh, the concentration camp guards will enjoy playing with you before they kill you. I'll make sure of that!"

A few more blows with Friedrich more than holding his own until his maimed leg started to interfere with his balance. But instead of backing off, Friedrich moved forward, the stick in his hand moving quicker and more expertly than the officer's, forcing the captain back toward the side of the building until Friedrich slipped on rubble with his unsteady left leg. And he fell with a stifled curse.

Breathing heavily, the captain stood over the fallen youth, baton raised high.

From behind the captain came a crunch of debris, a step. The SS captain spun around to face a now standing Stage, the knife in his hand. As the thin blade slid into his body, the captain heard the Stage's emotionless voice say as he died, "You were wrong, Herr _Hauptsturmführer_ ; he didn't miss you — he never misses. The knife was for me."

* * *

1 _Act Two_

2 Night vision goggles were used by Germans and Americans for years prior to the war.


End file.
